


THE PEERLESS PAIR

by hgdoghouse



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Historical AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-28
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:56:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 87,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie discovers a wounded man on the highway and takes him home...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An A/U, which begins several years after the Battle of Waterloo.
> 
> The short circuit version began life in the early 1980s as a Barbara Cartland-ish romp. Not surprisingly Doyle didn’t take to the idea of being the tremulous, virginal hero who spoke in ellipses and I quickly became bored and abandoned it. 
> 
> But the first couple of chapters had made me quite fond of the characters so a few years later I returned to it, did some research - if not as much as I should - and took the story a little more seriously.
> 
> Readers of Georgette Heyer will notice the nod to ‘Devil’s Cub’ in the first chapter. I would mention the occasional nod to Dorothy Dunnett but that would only raise false hopes...
> 
> The quotations at each chapter head are taken from _Pride and Prejudice_ by Jane Austen

ONE

_Thank Heavens I am going tomorrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him._

 

Chilled to the bone, Raymond Doyle trudged along the rutted track, wondering if he would ever reach the small town of Ponsbury. Giving a deprecating grimace he marvelled at his eagerness, for he had no notion of the best course of action to take when he arrived there. After his experiences earlier that day he lacked faith in the persuasive abilities of his tongue to procure a conveyance which would enable him to complete his journey while he was, to all intents and purposes, penniless. 

His purse having been lifted while he partook of nuncheon in the taproom of _The Boar_ he had found himself in the ignominious position of being unable to pay for his scanty repast. The landlord had not taken kindly to having the honesty of his customers or himself impugned, ordering Doyle from the Inn without further ado, whilst offering some unpleasant insinuations of his own. His spirits worn down by the three days he had spent on the roof of the London stage in inclement weather, Doyle had endured the man's insolence with uncharacteristic meekness. With no alternative but to set off on foot, he hoped that in the bustle of the market town twelve miles away he would be able to beg a ride, or, if necessary, sell the few possessions in the valise he carried to enable him to hire a mount or conveyance. 

While he wore a fortune about his person, Doyle knew better than to reveal the existence of the diamond drop earrings and necklace hidden in the belt at his waist. With the jewels for collateral he would have no difficulty in raising the small sum, which was all that was required to enable him to return home; to betray their presence invited the attentions of every rogue and footpad in the locality. 

Doyle felt a renewed stir of mistrust that his stepmother should have taken the unprecedented step of entrusting him with the errand of going to Cheapside to collect the jewels she had ordered reset according to the current mode. He would have expected such a task to be assigned to her faithful companion, or to his father's man of affairs, never to himself. Perhaps she was coming to change her opinion of him, he thought, with little conviction. Whatever her motives, he felt only gratitude for them. The days he had spent executing her commission had been amongst the happiest he had known, giving him only his third glimpse of the world outside the vast estate which was his home. It was a world he knew of only through periodicals and books surreptitiously read by candlelight. Not unnaturally the world which had met his enquiring gaze bore little resemblance to that portrayed in the pages he had perused so hungrily. He knew only that he wanted to learn more, his trip to the city jostling with vibrant life offering tantalising glimpses of all that had been lacking from his existence. 

His enthusiasm for travel had waned somewhat in the four hours since midday, his destination seeming no closer than when he left _The Boar_. In all that time only one cart and two private carriages had passed him; none had stopped to enable him to enquire as to his whereabouts. The rain was falling even harder now, obscuring the way ahead; water trickled from tight-clustered curls to slide down his neck and into his eyes, his soaked greatcoat weighing him down rather than offering any protection from the elements. 

Conscious that the poor light heralded the onset of nightfall, he wondered whether the directions he had been given by an urchin at the crossroads could have been correct; this did not have the appearance of a major highway. Pride and anger had carried Doyle at a goodly pace until now, but the weather worsening at every step, those emotions were overtaken by depression, his lot in life coming to seem as bleak as the track upon which he travelled. 

It was melancholy to reflect that there was no one to care what became of him - melancholy but undeniably true. While he was no stranger to physical hardship or loneliness, hardest to bear was the knowledge that he could not avail himself of the freedom within his grasp. But he must remain at his father's side. The fact his sire scarce acknowledged his existence from one year to the next had little bearing on the matter. 

Upon being presented with the puny, squalling son who had cost his spouse her life, Peter Doyle had consigned the babe to the charge of a wet-nurse, uncaring if the child lived or died. For more than twenty years that continued to be the sum of his interest in his second son. Despite such parental indifference the years of Doyle's infancy had not been unhappy. When he was but seven years old his father had returned from Europe with a new bride, a widow with two offspring by her first marriage. 

Doyle shivered and hitched the valise higher as he recalled the radical changes Consuela had wrought to his already spartan childhood. The first had been the dismissal of his only champion, his nurse. Less than delighted to discover herself expected to play a maternal role with two children her new husband had neglected to mention - and worse, two healthy sons - Consuela had taken a vehement dislike to Doyle from the first. Only in the last year had he discovered how far her bitterness at having no prestigious offspring to show for her second marriage had taken her. 

The machinations she had employed in an effort to drive him from his home were not new, the only difference was the open malevolence in her manner. More than Doyle absent she wanted Doyle dead. He had first run away at the age of eight. It had been more than a year before he found the courage to repeat the attempt, memories of the punishment which had greeted him when he was found and returned raw in his mind. It had been his older brother Theo who had caught up with him the second time, his cuff the closest thing to a caress Doyle had received for a long time. 

Large, golden and possessed of a lazy charm, Theo, prompted by a casual sense of affection, had offered his absent-minded protection to the large-eyed sibling nine years his junior. But even in the throes of hero-worship Doyle had been clear-eyed, recognising the patronage in Theo's regard. Not prepared to be the object of pity for any man, he had spurned his brother's aid and fought his battles alone. 

Discovering an escape from his stepmother's venom in the world of books, Doyle had taken to haunting the library at hours when his small figure would not attract attention, having learnt it was safer to remain unobtrusive in his own home. Inevitably Consuela learnt of his refuge, banning him from the room. With that escape taken from him Doyle had sought solace in solitary pleasures. 

Determined not to break, he gained a reputation for being a sullen, wilfully difficult child. Unsavoury rumours about him multiplied, local gossip attentively fed by Consuela's tender display of public concern. In self-defence Doyle grew more adept at concealing the wounds her vicious tongue inflicted, far worse than any beatings. With cruel subtlety she learnt to attack him through those he held in affection - the likely fate of his old nurse, whom she had dismissed with neither gratuity nor reference, a stray dog he had adopted and which died in mysterious circumstances and slighting references to his dead mother and later, about Theo. 

Accustomed to physical abuse for the slightest misdemeanour Doyle refined his own brand of self-defence. But whilst his acute observations offered pinpricks even to Consuela's monumental self-confidence, they earned him further retribution and so the joyless pattern was established. Throughout it all Theo had been a comforting presence in the background. Then he had joined his regiment and Doyle, aged twelve, had been left without a soul to care what became of him. 

Doyle withdrew into himself, offering all the warmth which remained in him to the animals around the estate. Banished to the stables by way of a punishment, he found there an escape and refuge in one. Even when he was permitted back into the house Doyle spent every free moment in the stables, careful to give no hint of the enjoyment he took in performing the most menial of tasks. He made himself so useful that sometimes the head stableman forgot the identity of his newest lad. However, by that action Doyle unwittingly abetted his stepmother's plans to oust him from family life. It was not uncommon for visitors who came upon him in the yard to take him for a stable lad and treat him accordingly. It amused Doyle to let them do so. The slights and cuffs were no surprise, it was the occasional rough kindness which had the power to overset him, offering as it did the reminder of what had been absent from most of his life. Hoarding the occasional gratuity tossed his way, he made his plans for escape, determined that this time he would not be found. 

His meagre belongings packed, all thoughts of departure were forgotten with the news of his brother's death at Quatre Bras. Lord Wellington's victory at Waterloo an irrelevance against the magnitude of that loss, Doyle took the news of his brother's untimely demise in unflinching silence, burying his tearing sense of loss deep within himself. He dared not allow Consuela to guess at his grief because he could not have borne to hear Theo diminished in any way. The news broke his father, who retired from public life. It was the precarious state of Peter Doyle's health since then which had bound Doyle to his uncongenial home more securely than any chains. 

Quickly tiring of the black weeds which custom dictated she should wear for a year, pining for the social whirl her state of mourning did not permit her to enjoy, Consuela had enjoyed some spectacular rages. Her own sons, cushioned by monies from their father's estate, ignored her as they had done all their lives. Possessing both the opportunity and the means, they returned to their lives of dissipation in London, leaving Doyle the only target for her spleen. In one histrionic day he learnt that she had plans for her future contingent upon her spouse's demise. She made it obvious that day could not come too fast for her liking, her heated words betraying the fact she had considered hastening it. 

While Theo had been alive she had seemed resigned to the fact that her own offspring must be content to receive what little of Peter Doyle's estate was not entailed, despite the fact they had no claim upon his pocket, nor to be fair to them, designs in that direction. The designs were all Consuela's. She had been able to tolerate with equanimity the prospect of Theo taking up his inheritance. Theo's looks, charm and placid temperament made him a universal favourite, for all that his understanding bore a marked resemblance to a profligate six-year-old's. Doyle, quick-witted and acid-tongued, allied with an appearance which Consuela had considered to be ugly even before the attack when he was fifteen, which had left him with a broken cheekbone, inspired first her contempt, then her hatred that her husband's wealth would bypass her fine sons in favour of an ill-made runt. 

An honourable man himself, if prone to ignoring events which might discommode the even tenor of his life, it never occurred to Peter Doyle that his wife could harbour violent ill-feeling toward a child of his blood. In consequence he believed every fabrication she fed him over the years, his residual resentment of Doyle changing to repugnance at the bad blood which had manifested itself in his vicious second son. 

Sublimely unaware of the worst charges laid at his door Doyle had been surprised, then ridiculously excited when his father had taken the unprecedented step of demanding to see him some two months after the news of Theo's demise. 

His own grief finding no comforting mirror in the green eyes so painfully reminiscent of his first wife, and already determined to make his abhorrence of his new heir plain, Peter Doyle had lost his habitual air of indifference. With Theo gone he was determined that Raymond should be made aware of his repugnance for his brutal pastimes and profligate lifestyle. His accusations met with nothing more than a blank-faced silence, Peter Doyle retired to his rooms, spent from castigating the son he could not disinherit. 

Doyle had been too stunned to think of defending himself. He had supposed himself to be beyond the stage where his father's disapprobation could touch him. That evening had taught him the measure of his mistake. Shown beyond question of doubt that he meant nothing but a bitter disappointment to his sire, Doyle remained on the estate only because he feared that if he left Peter Doyle's existence would be measured in days. 

The next eighteen months had been hard to bear. Now, having tasted freedom, Doyle did not know how he would bear such a life again, his mental resources and emotional defences eroded daily by the strain imposed on them while his youth slipped away. 

The renewed force of the driving rain against his bowed head recalled Doyle to his uncomfortable present. Puzzled by a strange rustling from the undergrowth which grew to the edge of the track, he half-turned but could see nothing untoward. A moment later his attackers were upon him. 

Fit and lithe as he was, Doyle's youth and quick wits were no match for the ferocity of the brawny ruffians. Unarmed, his face alight with a wild, savage joy, Doyle employed some of the fighting skills he had learnt whilst surviving the hostility of the grooms. Outnumbered and outweighed, his endeavours were to little avail. 

While Doyle was held fast by two of the footpads, the third delivered a systematic beating which left Doyle doubled over and retching. Sinking to his knees when he was released, the blood pounding in his ears, he heard snatches of a half-intelligible conversation. 

"Mind what you be about, you'll kill 'un." 

There was a contemptuous chuckle. "Very good, that, Jacko. An' what d'you s'pose we wuz tol' ter do with 'im after we got the goods, eh?" 

Able to surmise who must have hired them, Doyle struggled to his feet, understanding events of the day a little better. It had been no chance that his purse had been lifted, or that he had been directed onto this deserted roadway. Fury at having been duped with such ease gave his attack initial success. One rogue disabled, he swung round to guard his unprotected back a moment too late, crumpling as a heavy blow caught him from behind. Unconscious, he did not feel the knife which struck deep in his body, nor the rough hands upon him thereafter. 

***

"Why have we stopped?" Bodie enquired with displeasure, eyeing the face which hovered nervously at the open window of his carriage. 

Joseph ducked his head and gave a convulsive swallow, warned by the dangerous note in his master's voice. "There be an obstruction on the road ahead, sir." 

"Then remove it." 

"It be a body, sir," offered Joseph with a hint of desperation. 

Bodie raised a languid eyebrow. "So? Remove it." 

"Yes, sir." The head vanished from view as Joseph trudged away. 

Settling back in his seat, his head artistically displayed against upholstery which was several shades lighter than his eyes, Bodie found himself unable to resume his doze for the snatches of confused argument drifting across the night air as his servants sought to avoid the unpalatable task they had been set. 

The delay grew to interminable proportions. 

It had been a poor day notable only for its tedium and similarity to those which stretched behind it. Severely out of sorts Bodie opened his eyes, flexed his broad shoulders and, his mouth compressed, descended from the carriage, prepared in his irritation to dismiss his servants out of hand. He had supposed them to be capable of comprehending a simple command. 

The heavy rain which had fallen for most of the day had ceased, the air smelling fresh and sweet, in welcome contrast to the perfumed heat of the ballroom he had been trapped in until he had contrived his escape to the card tables. Progressing with his customary grace through the viscous mud which marred the burnished gloss of his Hessians, he strolled over to the circle of gesticulating men, who slowly fell silent then moved aside when they realised who had come amongst them. Able to see very little in the flickering light for the confusion of shadows cast by those around him, Bodie gestured for the hand-held torches to be raised higher, a slight frown marring the smooth skin of his forehead. His interest was stirred when he glimpsed the figure lying in the midst of his servants. A naked man. 

It was a sight not habitually seen on the King's Highway. 

"So," he drawled, his eyes moving from one shuffling figure to the next and finding no one capable of sustaining his gaze. "What is there about this body to occasion such a delay?" 

"Yon's nae a corpse - yet," reported Archie, with no discernible enthusiasm. In these hard times vagrants were two a penny. But there was something about this one which made Archie, whose grandmother had been gifted with the Sight, uneasy. 

Bodie subjected the dour Lowlander to an unexcited survey. "Splendid," he congratulated him, "but I fail to see why you imagine that would interest me. Or do you - ?" His voice faded as one of the torches was moved by a nervous hand, permitting him a view of the naked figure in more detail. 

The vagrant was pleasingly formed, if undernourished. There was an unexpected elegance of line to the displayed limbs, the profile intriguingly unconventional. Moving closer, Bodie saw the bruised face and skinned knuckles. The lad put up a struggle before he was despatched, for all that he didn't look strong. 

Uttering a soft curse as he explored his bloodied scalp, the wounded man stirred, offering inadvertent proof that his thin-hipped frame, whilst slender, was undeniably masculine. 

Heavy lids masking the brilliance of his eyes, Bodie crouched beside the sprawled figure, careless of the mud and damp. "Come, let me look at you," he commanded in the tone of one accustomed to being obeyed. He made to raise the slumped head to the light, curious to examine this intriguing face in more detail. Feeling tension as his fingers brushed beneath the man's chin, for one incredulous moment he thought he would be thrust aside. 

Ignoring the pressure of the alien hand, the bowed head rose of its own accord, the pale lids lifting to reveal eyes which seemed to glow silver in the flickering light of the torches. The man's disorientated state was obvious and he seemed to be experiencing difficulty in focussing. As Bodie watched, awareness returned to the face. 

"You are injured," he remarked, hoping he had imagined the fleeting look of mockery his announcement produced. 

Realising he was being studied in disconcerting detail, Doyle willed himself not to flinch from the brooding survey. One arm propped against his raised knee, he resisted the urge to cover his mud-splattered nakedness, all too conscious of the contrast he made to the fastidious elegance of the man so close to him. Nonchalantly he met and held the other man's gaze. 

"A trifle. My apologies for having inconvenienced you. I am, however, in no need of assistance." His disregard for the truth was obvious. 

The well-modulated voice held an accent Bodie could not immediately identify but it was a surprise for all that. This, he realised, ever acute, was no ordinary vagrant. "Indeed?" Making no attempt to hide his disbelief, he rose to his feet, staring at the pleasing expanse of flesh visible beneath obscuring mud. "You make a poor liar for someone white as a winding sheet." A sharp wind eddied around the group, causing the man on the ground to give a convulsive shudder. "No assistance, eh? Joseph, give him your coat as some protection from the cold." 

Muttering under his breath, Joseph was slow to obey. 

Unaccustomed to his requests being met by delay, Bodie turned briefly. "Joseph?" 

Scowling at his master's oblivious back Joseph peeled the garment off with a poor grace, holding it out in a manner which compelled the injured man to stretch if he wished to take it. 

Doyle ignored both the coat and the insolence with which it was offered, all his attention on the man standing above him. 

Sensing himself to be under surveillance Bodie turned from a low-voiced conversation with Archie, his eyes raking the man at his feet with a hard impatience. "Why so tardy? Come, let's be having you. You cannot be left here and I have no intention of waiting upon your convenience." 

Aware of the sluggish pulse of blood from the wound in his side, Doyle scowled up at his reluctant rescuer. Mentally cursing the weakness which left him unable to rise without assistance, he gathered his breath. "Then I suggest you collect your servants and resume your journey without further ado." 

A shock of surprise echoed around the small group watching the drama being enacted before them. Doyle was unaware of subtle nuances, conscious only of the dark-coated figure who swooped over him, merciless fingers taking him in a bruising grip. 

"Where you were raised I would not care to hazard a guess," hissed Bodie with soft-voiced venom. "Know that I permit no one to address me in that fashion. No one. Now, cover yourself in this," he twitched the coat from Joseph's nerveless grasp, thrusting it at Doyle, "and take up the footman's place at the rear of the coach. I suggest you save your insolence for those who are prepared to tolerate it." When Doyle did not move, he finished by giving the mute figure a hard shake, infuriated by what he took to be dumb insolence. 

Twisting in an effort to escape the bone-numbing grip, pain ripped through Doyle, spasming down his side. With a choked-off grunt he swooned, not without grace, against Bodie's thigh. 

Bodie stifled a curse. The other man's changed position revealed what someone should have noticed before, the deep wound hitherto concealed by the shadows. The quantity of blood betrayed how long he must have lain thus. 

"Stubborn young fool," he murmured without heat, his hands gentle now as he eased the unconscious man to lie back on the ground lest his wound be further aggravated. "Archie, why didn't you inform me of - ?" A glowering look reminded Bodie of the lack of interest he had expressed. With an apologetic glance at his henchman he allowed the question to trail away, his attention returning to the man at his feet. 

"Joseph, send a lad to rouse the surgeon and have him brought to the Hall. Archie, you'd best..." he gave a resigned sigh, seeing no help for it "place him in the carriage. He's in no case to make the journey in any other fashion." 

Suppressing a grim smile, the older man nodded, knowing that for all his display of ill-humour it was not in the master to abandon anyone in need of succour. "He's likely to get jolted something chronic," he warned. "And he'll no improve the interior of yon coach." He received a quelling glare from beneath dark eyebrows. 

"You feel it will be beyond my powers to restrain him should the need arise?" 

Archie found it prudent to remain silent. 

It was the work of a few moments to lift Doyle onto the silken upholstery, although the men were clumsy, having no wish to stain their own clothing with the mud and blood adhering to him. Eventually they devised a method which, while uncomfortable for their charge had he been conscious to feel anything, protected their clothing. Clambering in himself, Bodie gave the signal for the elegant equipage to get underway. 

At Archie's instigation the coachman maintained a pace more decorous than was usual for any vehicle of Bodie's, out of consideration for the injured man. The Scot had no wish to discover that their inconvenient passenger had bled to death on the journey home. Archie had served his master for most of Bodie's twenty-six summers; tonight, for the first time since Quatre Bras, he had seen a spark of interest kindle in the world-weary gaze, a speculative appreciation which had been absent for too long. 

If yon skinny lad was what his master wanted, Archie intended to do all in his power to see that Bodie got him. The views of the lad in question were, of course, of no consequence. 

Bodie gave a grimace of disgust at their sedate rate of progress and prepared to order the driver to increase their speed. A glance at the man slumped along the opposite seat gave him pause. The wound was an ugly one and he was of a mind to enact the role of the Good Samaritan rather than finish the work begun by footpads. 

The stench of blood seemed to fill the carriage, recalling memories of a battle Bodie longed to forget, losses he had no wish to remember. Closing his mind to them, he sought diversion from his troublesome thoughts in the stranger opposite him. Twitching the cheap cloth of Joseph's coat aside, he saw that the purple-edged wound was still bleeding sluggishly. Seeing no help for it, he looked about him for some means of devising a pad with which to staunch the weakening flow of blood. 

Having few materials at his disposal Bodie unfastened the perfection of his cravat; it would make an admirable bandage. In need of wadding, he tore down a portion of the expensive satin curtaining at the window. With a deft competence he proceeded to manufacture an efficient pad, binding it securely in place. Engrossed in fastening the last knot, a sharp-drawn breath and the abrupt rigidity of the slight frame informed him that his travelling companion had recovered consciousness. Looking up from a final check of the crude bandage he had contrived, Bodie was disconcerted to find himself under surveillance from wary, pain-filled eyes. 

"Should you wonder what I am about, you are being conveyed to my home where you will receive the attentions of a physician." He was aware of a wry amusement when his announcement elicited no protestations of gratitude. 

"Why?"

"Because you would bleed to death if left untended. I know you must be in some discomfort but feel constrained to point out that you have no one to blame but yourself for your present lack of ease. Had you taken the sensible course of action and made the extent of your injuries clear from the first, your hurts could have been tended to immediately," said Bodie with a tart lack of sympathy. There was a moment when he thought the stranger would swoon again as the carriage jolted and lurched across a particularly deep pot-hole. 

His teeth set in his lower lip, Doyle sought to focus on the sardonic face of his rescuer. "Had you taken more care in your dealings with a total stranger an explanation would have been rendered unnecessary." 

"You are insolent!" 

"And you are not?" 

The carriage lurched and swayed as it found another deep rut in the track; what little colour that remained drained from Doyle's face and he gave a stifled gasp, one hand going to his side. 

"Here, let me see," insisted Bodie with rough concern, his languid manner dropping away when he saw that the protective pad was already sodden with blood. "You are fortunate that your ribs deflected the blow. It was a knife." 

"I believe so." Only half-conscious, Doyle lacked the strength to resist the unwanted intimacy, his head sinking back, his breathing ragged. His skin mottled with the cold, he was helpless to prevent his teeth from chattering. 

Appreciating as much, Bodie glanced around, seeking an additional form of warmth for him and reluctantly came to the conclusion that he must sacrifice some more of his wardrobe. "I would choose to wear this cloak tonight," he murmured with resignation. Unfastening the jewelled clasp at his throat, he settled the soft folds around the other man. 

Doyle's shivering did not abate. 

"Why did I not recall it sooner?" Bodie asked himself. Leaning forward, he rummaged in one of the capacious pockets of the cloak and produced a flask. "Take some of this. Come, there is no need to look at me so, 'tis only brandy. You appear to be in need of something to warm you." 

Doyle would have drunk anything which promised him warmth. Accepting the flask, he choked as the fiery liquid burned its way down his throat. 

"And some more," Bodie commanded him. 

Bristling at the tone of unthinking arrogance, Doyle gave a mental shrug and did as he was bid. There was little profit to be had in arguing over such a trivial matter. Drinking deep, a spurious heat flooded his belly. His last scanty repast many hours ago, the harsh spirit was quickly absorbed into his system, its effect hastened by his loss of blood. Having almost drained the small flask, he extended it to its owner with an unsteady flourish. 

Frowning, Bodie made no move to take it. "Are you warmer?" 

Enfolded in luxuriant wool which was redolent of many scents, not least those of the man opposite him, Doyle nodded before offering a crooked grin of charmed and charming surprise as Bodie's face was cast into relief by the light from the flambeau outside. 

"Mister Darcy!" he exclaimed in delighted recognition. 

"I beg your pardon?" Bodie's tone was icy.

Strong spirit and loss of blood combined to make Doyle unusually loquacious. "Mister Darcy," he explained with another flamboyant gesture of his hand, recalling the novel which had given him so much pleasure. Its hero appeared to be seated opposite him, an ominous scowl darkening his face. 

"I am not he." Bodie's tone was not encouraging as he turned the wrist he had taken hold of. He examined the palm of the long-fingered hand, tracing the calluses and scars which bespoke hard and prolonged manual labour. Doyle made no attempt to escape the contact. The intimacy was not unpleasant but, sensitive to the delicate touch, his fingers curled around Bodie's, trapping them. Abruptly Bodie released him, as if only then becoming aware of what he was doing. 

Oblivious, Doyle offered an engaging, alcohol-soaked grin. "I know, but you have exactly the look of him. Or how I always envisaged him," he corrected himself dreamily, finding much to admire in the other man's face and form. His head spinning, he found nothing strange in his desire to run his finger down the bridge of his companion's nose. Fortunately he did not act upon that desire. 

Unaware of his narrow escape Bodie tried to ignore the other man's disconcerting gaze. "Who the devil is this Darcy fellow?" he demanded irritably, aware of an unreasonable pang of jealousy. 

"A creature of fantasy." 

Beginning to believe his companion's wits to be addled, Bodie's expression lightened when he remembered the flask of brandy. "You're half cut." 

Doyle considered the accusation. "Perhaps," he conceded. "It is an agreeable sensation. You are proud right enough, so I presume the prejudice will be mine." 

"I suppose you have some notion of what you are prattling about?" 

" _Pride and Prejudice_. It is a novel." 

Bodie eyed him with disbelief. "Are you telling me that this Darcy fellow features in some damned novel?" 

"And that you have just the look of him," confirmed Doyle happily. "You are not familiar with the work?" 

"I am not. I find your remarks impertinent. I was not aware that novels are habitually read by stable-lads. Indeed, I confess to surprise that you can read," Bodie added, of the opinion that it was time he made it plain to this young man that whilst his looks would earn him a certain level of remuneration they offered him no licence. The effect of his snub took him by surprise. All trace of animation fled from the face opposite his own, the full mouth severe and unsmiling now. 

Dropping his gaze, Doyle studied his betraying hands with great concentration. The biting contempt in the other man's voice had sobered him, killing his unguarded moment of pleasure. 

Witnessing that withdrawal Bodie experienced an unaccustomed pang of regret which he took pains to quash. The world has come to a fine pass when I must concern myself with the finer feelings of a hired lackey. 

"Well, man," he said, his voice unusually harsh. "You were loquacious enough when it suited you." 

Because I'm foxed, thought Doyle muzzily. He did not blame his uncivil saviour for his lack of welcome. To rescue a naked vagabond who offered only an unfitting forwardness and sharpness of tongue would try the patience of a saint. The man glowering on the opposite seat did not have the appearance of one anticipating canonization, his dark good looks suggesting another destination entirely. 

"I ask your pardon," he said quietly. "I forgot my place." 

"Indeed you did," agreed Bodie ungraciously, but he let the matter rest when the other man's face twisted as the coach lurched again. 

The apology had not come easily to Doyle but he knew it was wiser to permit this arrogant stranger to believe him an impertinent groom rather than that he should stumble upon the truth. To reveal his identity whilst he was too weak to defend himself would be to sign his death warrant. Upon learning his true identity a message would be despatched to his home. Consuela, all pretty concern, would rush post-haste to tend to him. She was skilled in the application of herbal remedies, both those which healed and those which did not. When he died there would be no one interested enough to look beyond the wound he had sustained. With his death achieved, the only impediment to her plans would be his father. Lost in troubled thoughts as his fever rose, Doyle was unaware of the other man's scrutiny, his discomfort intensifying with each jolt of the coach. Succumbing to the threatening shadows, he slid into an uneasy doze and from there into unremarked unconsciousness. 

Diverted from his habitual pose of disinterested languor, Bodie watched the close-lidded face, uncertain how best to deal with the challenge which had been presented to him. He was unable to account for his interest, knowing only that there was some mystery here that he would unravel before he was done. The voice and vocabulary were not those Bodie associated with anyone from the serving classes. The notion of this man being in service was nonsensical. No groom, no matter how lenient a master he served, would dare to assume the consequence of this man; no servant he. What he might prove to be was something Bodie was determined to discover. Disadvantaged as he was, the waif-like figure possessed an innate dignity which even his mud-splattered nakedness could not mar. The slender hands with their betraying calluses contradicted the book-reading, so he was no clerk. Nor was the lad as young as Bodie had first supposed. The over-long hair and air of defencelessness were misleading, the latter, Bodie was sure, of only a temporary nature. He had glimpsed marks on the thin-fleshed back which spoke of old beatings, oft administered. With that insolent tongue it isn't to be wondered at. He invites reprisals. But no gentleman would so mistreat a servant. 

He grimaced, having seen enough of the world to know his view was one not universally accepted by his peers. Is he escaping such a master? It seems unlikely. With that quick temper he would have quit the place long since and he carries the marks of prolonged ill-usage. A yeoman, or some such then, pressed into the service of King and Country and attacked by footpads after having deserted? No, for while he took the luxury of the coach for granted, from his start of surprise after swallowing the brandy I would swear it was the first time he had tasted strong spirits - which makes him an unlikely seaman. 

Mister Darcy indeed, he thought, amused in retrospect. But as his gaze returned to the piquant attractions of the sleeping face with its sensual mouth, Bodie felt a stirring of something that was far from amusement. 

Alighting from his carriage, Bodie learnt that a party of gentlemen awaited him; acquaintances who had decided to break their journey to their hunting lodges for a convivial week or so. His expression schooled to one of bland sociability, knowing he was destined to endure many tiresome reminiscences about army life that he would prefer not to recall, he strolled indoors, his attention diverted from his intriguing find on the highway. It was doubtful how long it would have been maintained; Bodie's interest did not run to ministering to the needs of the sick and by the time the carriage entered the drive leading to the Hall it was evident that the stranger was far from well. 

Bodie left it to his secretary to arrange for the unconscious man to be conveyed to a room. Beyond adding casual instructions that he be given every attention, Bodie dismissed the man from his mind, more concerned with how best to steer the conversation with his guests from the past to the latest on-dits from Town. 

 

The surgeon arrived, all indignation when he discovered his patient to be a muddy vagabond. He left, after giving Doyle an uncomfortable three-quarters of an hour, mollified by some adroitly phrased praise from Simon Turner, Bodie's always accommodating secretary. It was close to dawn when Turner went in search of his master, chagrined not to find him between the sheets. 

On the point of seeking out his bedchamber, Bodie was sober enough to understand that the injured man was unlikely to have taken any lasting harm from the wound. Hearing that he would, however, stand in need of several days' bed-rest, Bodie ordered clothes, food and care to be provided. Ignoring the expectant glances being directed his way from under Turner's pale lashes, his interest in the invalid further cooled. 

Turner's manner offered an unwanted reminder of past indiscretions and his month old resolve not to involve himself with the lower orders, the majority of whom proved distressingly maladroit in their comprehension of how a gentleman conducted his affairs. 

Offering his secretary a look of blank incomprehension before bidding him goodnight in a pointed fashion, Bodie made a mental note to find the man a position in another household. When he retired for what little was left of the night, a bottle of brandy was his only bedmate.


	2. Chapter 2

TWO  
 _Is not general incivility the very essence of love?_

 

The descent of the steep stairway proved more taxing than Doyle had anticipated. Gordon had been correct, he conceded wryly as he was forced to stop and catch his breath for the third time in as many minutes, he should have remained abed as the surgeon suggested. His first days at the Hall had passed in a confusion of pain and fever, his plight exacerbated by the rough but well-meant attentions of Gordon, the boot-black assigned to perform whatever services he might require. 

The years had taught Doyle to trust no one. After one comprehensive glance in a relatively lucid moment, he had dismissed Gordon in no uncertain terms, cursing the weakness which left him shaking even from the effort of speech. An hour later, while he lay in a tangle of bedding and stained bandaging, a red¬eyed Gordon reappeared, trailing behind the formidable figure of Miles, the butler. Magisterial calm resting over thin-veiled contempt, Miles had explained that because the master had ordered Doyle to be tended to he would have an attendant whether he wished it or not. Gordon was all that was available. If he should prove unsatisfactory he would be beaten again. The poor creature's wits were addled, Miles had unbent to add with disquieting relish. 

Swallowing his angry retort that a beating was unlikely to improve Gordon's efficiency, Doyle had explained that the fault had been his own. Unconvinced, Miles left after delivering a warning to Gordon which left him trembling like a whipped puppy. 

Contrite at the painful consequences his ill-temper had had for Gordon Doyle did what he could to calm him, suffering his well¬intentioned but clumsy ministrations with what fortitude he could muster. He discovered that Miles had, if anything, understated the case and began to wonder if Gordon was possessed of any wits at all. But Doyle knew what it was to be defenceless and at the mercy of others, discovering an unlooked-for patience in himself when he dealt with the simpleton. 

By the end of three days Gordon had ceased to spill, drop or break everything placed in his hands. Finding himself met with a determined if sometimes weary kindness, he devoted himself to the man in his charge, viewing Doyle as his protector and font of all knowledge in one. It was with no little surprise and some inner amusement that Doyle realised he had found himself a champion, one in whose eyes he could do no wrong. It imposed a responsibility he could have done without. 

His fever abated on the third day; by the fifth his wound had begun to knit, due more to his powers of recuperation than to the ministrations he received. This morning Gordon had burst into his room more damp-mouthed than usual. Stifling an exclamation of discomfort as Gordon lurched against his truckle bed, Doyle had calmed him before encouraging him to offer his news. Miles had intimated that if he felt able Doyle was to make his way to the kitchen, whereupon he would be escorted to the office to see Mister Turner, the master's secretary, about the arrangements which had been made for him. 

Anxious to continue his journey and ignoring Gordon's stammered expressions of concern, Doyle had thought he felt able. It had taken only a length of corridor and two flights of stairs to demonstrate the measure of his mistake. The Hall was large and rambling, full of unexpected dark corners and small stairways. Despite Gordon's confused explanation Doyle had managed to piece together a comprehensive mental image of the Hall's layout beyond the confines of the servants' quarters high in the attic. Realising that if he was to go through the door on his left it would be a matter of moments before he reached the main staircase which would take him to Turner's office, he did not hesitate. One hand pressed to the dragging pain in his side, he was halfway across the landing when a cool voice halted his uneven progress. 

"You there, what the devil do you mean by - ? Good God, I should have guessed whom it would be," said Bodie, amusement overtaking his irritation when he recognised the intruder. 

Doyle turned, half-guilty, half-defiant. "I was - " 

"Save your explanations until you have the breath for them," Bodie advised him through a crashing headache. How could he have forgotten a face such as this? To the best of his recollection he had spent the last six days in a alcoholic stupor. This morning, his uninvited guests finally gone, he had been in the mood for some physical activity to clear the fog in his brain. No more than half-sober, he had thought to rediscover the merits of fresh air with a brisk gallop. All thoughts of his ride were forgotten as he noticed the sheen of perspiration dewing the other man's face and the unsteady hand which blindly sought the wall for support. Realising the man was on the point of collapse, Bodie offered his arm which, of necessity, Doyle accepted. 

Furious with his weakness, Doyle straightened the moment he was able, a fleeting look of dismay crossing his face when he realised that the man at his side was his reluctant rescuer rather than the top-lofty footman he had assumed. "I - " 

"What in Heaven's name are you wearing?" interrupted Bodie, his every sense revolted by the sartorial disaster which met his fastidious eye. 

Not one whit disconcerted, Doyle removed his hand from the support he had been given, offering a wry grin. He was aware that the voluminous shirt and baggy breeches must appear ridiculous. "I am not sure," he confessed, but was unwise enough to add, "you must know it is no simple task to find suitable cast-offs fit for a groom." 

"Ah, yes. A groom." 

Doyle found he cared neither for the light mockery in the other man's voice nor for the comprehensive scrutiny he was subjected to from bloodshot eyes. His chin tilting at a pugnacious angle, he returned the compliment, making his own appraisal of the dark good looks of the man he belatedly realised could be only a little older than himself. Unperturbed by the frank scrutiny Bodie watched with barely concealed amusement his companion's struggle to guard his tongue. 

"Your efforts will be to no avail," he said with a slurred satisfaction, "I shall discover your identity soon enough. You would do better to confide in me voluntarily." 

Doyle leant unobtrusively against the wall. " You are mistaken, sir. But I have trespassed on your - " he judged his pause to a nicety " - hospitality for too long. It is time I took my leave. Why do you shake your head?" 

"Because I cannot believe you to be serious in your contention," replied Bodie, who was in the mood to make mischief. 

At the end of his reserves of strength Doyle could not conceal his bewilderment. 

"Do you suppose I habitually expend large sums of money on a stranger without expecting recompense? There is the trifling matter of transporting you here, providing medical care, shelter, food, clothing..." Bodie shrugged, having listed all the items he could bring to mind. "But perhaps I do you an injustice and you intend to settle your account before taking your leave." He watched with interest as the colour ran up under the other man's skin. 

"If you will accept my IOU..." Doyle realised too late the impossibility of what he was suggesting. His pockets to let, he had no hope of supposing he would be able to redeem even a small sum. 

The sound of Bodie's derisive laughter filled the hallway. "From a groom? One can only admire your optimism. I am not so easily gulled. You will repay me in the only manner open to you - by physical labour in the stables. Where you belong," he added with deliberate cruelty, determined to dent the other man's stubborn pride. 

His eyes open to their fullest extent as he kept a tight rein on his temper, Doyle bleakly asked the amount of his debt. The sum Bodie mentioned was plucked from thin air. Doyle had no way of realising that, knowing only that it would take him several years on a stableman's wages to repay the sum. And he must return home. While he could offer little threat to his stepmother's plans, at least while he lived she would be in no hurry to hasten his father's end. If he did not return she would believe her hired cohorts had succeeded in their assassination attempt. 

"Is it such a vast sum?" Despite himself Bodie felt a faint pang at the stricken expression in the green eyes, aware of the valiant effort the other man was making to recover his composure. 

For a split second Doyle knew an almost overwhelming urge to confide in Bodie. The knowledge that he could offer no explanation that would not have the sound of one of Mrs Radclyffe's Romances kept him silent. Trust no one, he reminded himself fiercely. 

"You know it must be, although such an amount can be no more than a trifle to you," Doyle said acidly. The man was no better than a damned Cit! 

"True," agreed Bodie, sobering. It had been an ill-conceived jest, provoked by some whim he did not propose to examine too closely. About to call a halt, the expression of flaying contempt on the other man's face stung the conscience Bodie claimed not to own, bringing his own temper to the fore. He would finish what he had begun, come what may. 

"Amongst gentlemen a debt is considered a matter of honour, presuming you are capable of understanding the concept," he said icily, watching one hand curl into a fist. He was conscious of disappointment when his companion's control held. "However, for one year's labour I will consider your debt satisfied in full," he added magnanimously. "The quicker you begin your new duties the quicker you will be free. Unless you would prefer me to contact the local Justice of the Peace to resolve our dispute?" 

About to insist upon that course of action Doyle was forced to reconsider. Until his story could be investigated he would doubtless be imprisoned; inevitably the news would get out once his identity was confirmed. Fearing the effect such a scandal would have upon his father he knew he must remain here until he could contrive his escape. 

"How do you know I will not leave at the first opportunity?" he demanded, prodded by his inconvenient conscience. 

Bodie drew a surprised breath. The man facing him was either a fool or possessed of a rare integrity. "I should not," he said, enunciating each word with great care, "make the attempt if I were you. I would have no hesitation in utilising every means at my disposal to hunt you down. The law is quite clear on the subject of theft. Doubtless you are better aware of the penalties than I." 

Recognising that the threat was no idle one, Doyle knew his plan would have to be foolproof. 

"Well?" pressed Bodie. 

"Well what?" returned Doyle, acidly obtuse. 

Bodie stiffened. Was this insolent young pup incapable of recognising defeat? he wondered, aware of the challenge implicit in every line of the thin body. "First you must learn to guard your tongue. What is your name?" He was determined to be answered without evasion. 

There was a stubborn silence. 

"Would you rather I had the information beaten from you? What is your name?" 

Doyle's head snapped up, his face pinched with temper. "You may call me Doyle, Raymond Doyle," he said, offering the truth in a manner he knew would be disbelieved. 

His eyes blazing, nostrils flared with anger, Bodie's hand curled into an impotent fist. "I will instruct my secretary to arrange matters. You may go." He waited until Doyle had made his way to the bottom of the stairs before adding, "It is customary for the grooms to use the servants' stairway in the unlikely event they have any call to be in the house. I suggest you seek out the stables by that route. Now." 

His back ramrod straight, Doyle remained still for a moment, blind with fury. When he spun round his rage made the ascent of the first few steps easy. By the time he had achieved the top stair he was in no case to realise he was alone. It was there that Simon Turner found him thirty minutes later. 

 

Saul Grimsby glared at the urbane figure of his master's secretary, making no attempt to conceal his contempt for the fop so elegantly displayed in the incongruous surroundings provided by the stables. "An' what good d'you suppose this one'll be to me?" he demanded with bitter disbelief, sparing Doyle a disparaging nod of acknowledgement. 

"None whatever, I would imagine," said Turner, Saul Grimsby's good opinion a matter of supreme indifference to him. "Nevertheless, those are Mister Bodie's orders. You are to work him hard and treat him as you would any of the other lads - except that you are to report any, er, difficulties to me." 

"Oh aye?" Grimsby hawked and spat into the straw at Turner's feet. "If'n I take him on where am I supposed to bed him?" 

Turner sighed. If it had been left to him Grimsby would have been turned off months ago. Unhappily, for all his seeming lack of interest in the management of the estate, Bodie never forgot an old friend. To Turner's regret the place was riddled with those who had clung to the Bodie family for generations. This unkempt lad was assuming an unwarranted importance in everyone's life. Why William should have taken a fancy to the pug-faced ruffian was a mystery, although after a prolonged study, which Doyle had studiously endeavoured to ignore, Turner had been forced to concede that he supposed there were those who might consider Doyle attractive. Sullen, but bedworthy. Perhaps he had erred in being too complaisant? There was no time to ponder that now, but Turner had already decided to ensure that Doyle's life was made so uncomfortable that he would make off within the week. William's memory was notoriously poor. All he had to do is keep them apart... 

"I said - " 

"I heard you the first time, Saul. Above the stables, of course. With the rest of the lads." 

Unsurprised by the pettish tone, Grimsby nodded in the manner of one humouring a simpleton. "They was moved to the Forge until the roof's bin fixed - on your orders, if you recall. They're packed nose t'tail as it is." He held Turner in contemptuous scorn, aware that all the slipshod work grudgingly carried out around the estate could be laid at his door. Anyone with half an eye could see he was robbing the master blind. He'd been feathering his nest for over a year now, with no one possessing the courage, or more importantly, the opportunity to point out as much to Bodie. But then the master was rarely seen about the place these days, save when he was the worse for drink and unapproachable. There was no profit to be had in tackling Archie about what went on, the Scot adamant that his master should not be bothered with trivialities. Trivialities, thought Grimsby indignantly. So far loyalty to the family name and the man who bore it had kept those of any worth about the place, but some of the smaller farms were having a lean time of it. 

Wanting to be gone, Turner gave an uninterested shrug. The rich smell of the stables was not to be borne any longer. Holding a scented scrap of lace to his nostrils, he waved the irrelevance aside. "Do with him as you will. But keep an eye on him," he snapped, giving Doyle a look of venomous dislike, "for I've no doubt he'll do as little as possible to earn his keep." 

"Doubtless. Hangers-on be no novelty around here," replied Grimsby with monumental scorn. He smothered a grin as he watched Turner mince from the stable, the perfection of a sloping shoulder marred by a pigeon's dropping. Belatedly he turned his attention to the latest addition to his workforce. The sight which met his gaze was not encouraging, a whey-faced scrap, the thin wrists poking from voluminous shirt-sleeves looking about as strong as his youngest grandchild's and not half so decorative. 

"No doubt you heard, my name's Grimsby, Saul Grimsby. I manage the master's horseflesh. I've only nine lads under me at present so we're hard-pressed, but I'm choosy about who works for me. You ever worked in a stable afore?" he asked, fearing the worst. 

Doyle gave a brief nod. 

"Yes, Mister Grimsby," corrected the stableman, giving Doyle a box on the ear which made his eyes water. 

Unobtrusively Doyle gripped the wooden post behind him for support. 

"Well, that's summat, if it's true. Work well with horses, do ye?" 

"Well enough." A second cuff left Doyle with his other ear smarting. 

"Time'll tell. You'd best sleep in the hay loft for now. Straw's sweet and plentiful. The water pump's round the back, your nose'll lead you to the privy. Where are your belongings?" 

"I have none," said Doyle dully. Twelve months... Only now did he believe it was not some cruel jest. He had a journey of nigh on eighty miles to complete and he dared not speculate how long it would take without the aid of food or money for transport. But the journey must be made, and begun quickly. 

Grimsby cuffed him again, the blow devoid of malice, merely a rough-handed reminder of the courtesy that was his due. "It don't take great powers of observation to tell this ain't what you're accustomed to. I dunno who or what you are, t'ain't my business. Fact is you've been sent to work for me. You'd best learn fast or you'll be in for an uncomfortable time of it. No belongings, you say?" He frowned on noticing the thin shirt and worn corduroy breeches held up with a string belt that Doyle wore. Rubbing his chin, he was unwilling to make any concession that might be taken for a sign of weakness. On the other hand, a sickly lad was no use to man or beast. 

"I've an old jacket you can have, a bit o' blanket, too. It gets mortal cold of a night and you've no more meat on you than a sparrow. Like workin' with horses, do you?" Grimsby persevered, trying to make something of the sullen creature before him. 

"Yes, Mister Grimsby." 

The stableman gave the bowed head an unseen nod of approval. Pride was one thing but he couldn't abide a fool. The lad was young enough for there to be a chance of making something of him. "Mebbe so. It's more to the point if they take to you. I'll see how you do before I'll trust you to tending them. There's plenty to keep you out of mischief. Here, follow me." 

He led Doyle to the end of the barn and opened a small door which led out into the vast yard. A soft whicker betrayed where the horses were housed. Doyle's hopes were dashed when Grimsby turned him round, smiling with more approval. 

"Mebbe later," he promised. "You can see the heap o' muck that needs shifting the same as I can. Shovel's here, barrow's in there. Take it round the back, next to the privy. Any questions?" To his surprise there were none. The first things most of the lads asked about were the frequency of their days off, the location of the nearest village or town and anxious enquiries about the quantity and quality of the food. This one showed no interest in his surroundings. Grimsby paused. "Ye don't talk much, do 'ee, lad." 

Startled, Doyle looked up. The stableman was not sure whether he imagined the glimmer of amusement in the back of the light eyes, the caution was quite apparent. 

"No, Mister Grimsby." 

"Why do I get the feelin' that may be no bad thing," Grimsby said, feeling a little happier about his latest recruit. "Get you to work then, lad." Clapping a thin shoulder, he pointed in the direction of the shovel and went off to see how the rest of his workforce was faring in his absence. 

As a newcomer Doyle attracted a good deal of attention, word having been quick to spread that he had been taken on at the master's command. Speculation was rife amongst the other lads, but good-humoured in the main. 

Working with a slow determination, his face set as every small movement dragged at the burning wound in his side, Doyle ignored the comments. He knew he could not afford to draw more attention to himself, let alone allow himself to be provoked into a fight. Eventually, tiring of the poor sport he offered, the lads dispersed, two of the more maliciously inclined having first emptied the barrow he had labouriously filled, scattering the dung halfway across the yard. 

His belly comfortably full after a satisfying meal of steak and kidney pudding washed down with ale, only a chance remark by his wife reminded Grimsby that his new stable-lad was notable for his absence from the table. Rather than question the other lads, he went off to find Doyle, intending to check on his progress at the same time. Staring at the pungent mess covering the cobbles, disbelief turned to anger as he resumed his search in earnest. 

Finding Doyle draped over the water pump, Grimsby hauled him roughly upright. About to give him a piece of his mind, he noticed the grey-tinged face and the way the shirt clung damply to the thin frame. "You ailin'?" he accused, prepared to give Doyle the benefit of the doubt. 

His mouth compressed, Doyle shook his head in mute denial. He had only to survive until the hours of darkness, then he could make his escape. 

"Then what the hell be 'ee playin' at?" Grimsby demanded, his stentorian bellow carrying clear across the yard. 

"I am tired," murmured Doyle lamely. 

Speechless at the effrontery of it, Grimsby released him with a force which sent Doyle staggering backwards. "Tired! You soon will be." In his anger he neglected to enquire why his lazy charge had not troubled to make the most of the break to eat. It did not occur to him that Doyle had no idea where and at what time he was entitled to do so. 

 

By mid-evening when Grimsby finally left his side, having hovered there like some malignant shadow, Doyle lacked the strength to move. He had been kept busy hauling bags of feed and was now slumped beside them, careless of the scant, dirty straw on which he lay. Sickened by pain, he had no thought for food or the chill night air. Just for a minute, he told himself, knowing the fragile scar tissue at his side had reopened. Promising himself that he would deal with that before he made his escape, he closed his eyes. 

Gordon woke him by tripping over his outstretched legs. "What are you doing here?" Doyle asked with sleepy concern, propping himself up on one elbow. 

Speech was not easy for Gordon. Stumbling and stammering, he managed to explain that he had been worried when Doyle failed to return and had been trying to find him ever since, making use of the odd free moment. 

"Oh, Gordon, the thought was admirable but you should not have left the house. What if you are missed?" Doyle pointed out gently. In no position to help anyone, the last thing he needed was to add the luckless Gordon to his list of responsibilities. "You must hurry back before anyone stirs. I am well enough," he added, knowing better than to try and move again. 

Undeceived, Gordon shook his head. His hand moved to Doyle's side, halting only when Doyle flinched in anticipation of the touch. His tongue protruding unattractively between his teeth whilst he concentrated, Gordon gently eased the shirt free from the belt and discovered that the coarse cloth was stuck to the reopened wound. Watery blue eyes stared accusingly into green. 

"It will mend," Doyle assured him. "But thank you for your concern. What is this?" Wishing to change the subject, he gestured to the tightly knotted handkerchief Gordon held. 

Proudly Gordon undid the knot to reveal what should have been his supper, lovingly saved. "For you," he said without any hint of a stammer. 

It was a moment before Doyle trusted himself to speak for the lump in his throat. If his situation was grim, what was Gordon's? he thought, ashamed of his own feeble spirits. God knows what his life had been like if a few token words of kindness could inspire such devotion. For he was under no illusions, laid out on the grubby handkerchief was all Gordon owned, offered without hesitation. More, in venturing out here he risked the wrath of Miles, who terrified him into incoherence. All this, for my sake. 

"How did you guess I would be ravenous? We will share it," Doyle added with a smile, dividing the stale bread and slivers of mousetrap cheese with blistered fingers. "Here, eat with me now. Then you must return to the house. How goes it with you? As you can see I have sorely missed your services." He rubbed his healthy growth of stubble and saw his companion give a shy grin at the reminder of the disastrous morning when Gordon had shaved him. 

"Come, eat some more," urged Doyle, knowing Gordon would get only scraps to sustain him throughout the day, "and tell me of your doings." 

After a hesitant beginning Gordon launched into speech. Only the sound of movement in the yard some time later recalled both men to their present situation. 

"You must go," said Doyle, seeing the panic in the pale eyes. Rising stiffly, one hand pressed to his side, he opened the barn door. The yard was empty. "I enjoyed your company, but promise me you will not put yourself at risk again." 

For the first time in their acquaintance his request was met with a mutinous silence.

"Gordon." 

The bite in the soft voice made Gordon flinch, as if anticipating a blow, but still he would not promise. "You ain't well," he said stubbornly. "T'ain't fittin' that you should be used so. T'ain't fair." It was the longest speech he had ever made without stumbling. 

Doyle's throaty chuckle warmed him. "We're agreed on that much, then. Nothing is, my friend. Worry less about my welfare and more about your own. I shall do well enough. Remember, if you perform your tasks slowly and think about what you are doing you will contrive to do as well for others as you have done for me." Having watched Gordon creep in through the scullery window, Doyle was anxiously listening for any outcry when Joseph came upon him. 

 

A troublesome tooth having given Joseph a bad night, he was in no good humour, delivering a hard clout when he found Doyle idling. He blamed the newcomer for the loss of his fine coat, having no faith that Turner would reimburse him for it as the master had ordered. 

Gritting his teeth against the urge to retaliate in a manner which would teach Joseph to keep his hands to himself, Doyle trudged into the yard. Picking up the shovel, he promised himself that if the opportunity arose he would settle his score with the man before he left. 

A couple of the older lads took care to ensure there was no repetition of the previous day's events, prompted by their preference for a quiet life rather than any consideration for Doyle. It was the view around the stables, based upon an admittedly short acquaintance, that the sullen, sour-tongued little bastard deserved everything he got. 

The break at midday saved Doyle from collapse. Trailing leaden-limbed after the others, he ate little and spoke only when directly addressed, thus escaping attention for the most part. However, by the time evening came he was forced to admit his inability to cross so much as the yard, never mind attempt a lengthy journey. Abandoning any thought of eating supper, he fell asleep the moment Saul Grimsby, still radiating disapproval at his slow progress, left his side. 

"What the hell be 'ee about?" 

A sharp kick to the soles of his feet completed what Grimsby's roar had failed to achieve and Doyle stirred in hazy protest. Blinking owlishly in the dusty half-light he found the thickset stableman looming over him and abruptly sat up, pain streaking down his side. 

"What o'clock is it?" His voice was husky with sleep. 

Grimsby's cuff sent him back into the straw. "Two hours past the time you should have been workin', ye lazy young jackanapes." A rough hand jerked Doyle to his feet, hauling him out into a yard lit by winter's sunshine, frost still glinting on the cobbles. Under the malicious eyes of the rest of the virtuous workforce Grimsby tumbled Doyle under the pump and doused him with freezing water before propelling him back into the barn. 

"I dunno what you've bin used to - waited on hand and foot in your last situation were you? Well, you'll find I run things very different," he promised, Turner's warnings returning to haunt him. "Look at the state o' you! Tomorrow I expect to see a clean-shaven chin. Tidy yourself up." He waited only until Doyle, who was shivering convulsively, tucked in the tail of his wet shirt before continuing, "I've wasted all the time I'm prepared to on the likes of 'ee. Take yourself off into the second tack-room, there's a deal of clearin' up to be done. If you're hungry, you'd best reflect on it, for you'll get nothin' until tonight - if I'm satisfied with your work. I'll get a decent day's work out of 'ee if it's the last thing I do. Understand?" The last was punctuated with a jab from a work-scarred finger. 

His head swimming, Doyle nodded sickly. Morning, he thought aghast. Another day lost. Oh, God. His eyes closed. 

"Well, don't just stand there, get a move on!" roared Grimsby, infuriated that his forbearance should have made Doyle suppose he could get away with slipshod work and idleness. Having become aware of the discontent amongst the other lads, which had only sprung into being since Doyle's appointment, he was in no humour to be fair when it came to apportioning blame. "Any more trouble from you and you'll feel my belt round your backside," he promised in parting. 

That was too much. Doyle's eyes, bright with fever and disbelief, snapped open and he wrenched himself free with a strength the stableman had not been expecting. "The hell you say! Damn your insolence, whom do you imagine you are addressing?" 

The unthinking arrogance of the query gave Grimsby pause for just long enough. 

"An excellent question, and one I mean to have answered," remarked a familiar soft drawl. Bodie strolled in through the open doorway, Joseph at his shoulder. "Is he giving you trouble already, Saul?" His lazy gaze moved between the two figures, noting the fury stamped on Doyle's face and the challenge in the wide-eyed stare which refused to drop before his own. 

"Aye," growled Grimsby, too enraged to be just. "Nothin' but, the lazy young tyke. I'll soon set him to rights." 

"I've no doubt you could but as it was I who saddled you with him I fail to see why you should be put to the trouble. What is your name?" Bodie added to Doyle. 

"You already know it." 

The expression in the narrowed blue eyes caused the stableman to step forward, knowing his master's temper of old. "He didn't mean that the way it sounded." 

Bodie ignored the excuse. "Joseph, take Doyle outside, give him a thrashing he'll remember and put him to work. If you require assistance, call for it." His mouth thinned with contempt as Doyle allowed himself to be hustled away. 

The last thing Doyle heard was the same voice, languid now, enquiring after the welfare of a favourite mare. 

His ill-will towards Doyle unabated, Joseph carried out his orders with an excess of enthusiasm. The yard being deserted, everyone having beaten a prudent retreat long since, there was no one around to contain the man's unhealthy zeal for his task. 

 

A bucket of water brought Doyle choking back to consciousness. His expression made Joseph unaccountably uncomfortable as he unfastened Doyle's wrists from the post to which they had been tied.

"It is not usually considered a disgrace for a man to enjoy his work," said Doyle quietly, his breathing still ragged, " but you..." 

Stung by that soft-voiced disgust, Joseph relieved his feelings by giving Doyle a shove which sent him reeling against the side of the barn, wrenching a cry from him. "It 'ud be best if you saved your breath for work, Mister Doyle," he sneered. There was a chilling moment when he thought he might be attacked before it was gone. 

"If you will show me where the second tack-room is?" requested Doyle with a humility which came close to choking him. 

Disconcerted, Joseph did so in silence, feeling a pang of guilt about his overly-heavy hand when he glimpsed the stripes he had laid on through Doyle's torn shirt. 

 

By the time Grimsby came upon Doyle again it was late afternoon. For the stableman events of the morning had been overtaken by far more important concerns, namely the health of his master's new mare. 

"So this is where you've bin hidin' yourself, is it," he paused to remark, sounding uncommonly harassed. "Well, I suppose you'll be better than no help at all. Leave that an' come with me." He thrust a bottle into Doyle's hands and picking up a bucket and a handful of rags vanished out of the door without sparing Doyle a second glance. 

Following as fast as he was able, Doyle listened as Grimsby muttered on about the mare's condition to himself, and did what was required of him. In truth it was little enough. Working through a haze of pain Doyle's hands were sure and gentle on the frightened mare, his voice soft and full of affection as he whispered endearments to her, forgetting the presence of the man on her other side. 

Noting the way the younger man's presence soothed her Grimsby gave a grunt of approval, relieved he did not have to waste time finding another helper. Two hours later, satisfied they had done all they could for the present, he straightened with a tired grunt. "I reckon she'll do. You've got a way with 'ee, I'll grant 'ee that. Looks like you're wasted away from horseflesh. 'Tis a pity you don't think to expend a little of them fine manners on those o' us with two legs." 

"Yes, Mister Grimsby." 

The subdued voice was in stark contrast to that which the stableman had heard only moments before. Moving under the mare's head he stood above Doyle, who was engrossed in fastening the small basket containing stoppered bottles of physic. 

"You've earned a break," he said kindly. "Let's see what Molly's got to offer for supper. You must be ready for summat." Remembrance of their disagreement and its aftermath returning, he cleared his throat. "I spoke a mite hasty this mornin'. I overslept meself, but I had no call to take it out on you for doin' the same. Come, I hadn't taken you to be the sort to brood over spilt milk." He clapped a hand on a bowed shoulder. 

The suppressed sound that elicited made Grimsby frown at the kneeling figure. "I was forgettin'. You got the master riled, never mind me. You'll be smarting still, I've no doubt. I've got some liniment that'll ease you in a trice. Come, lad, you'll not deny I was provoked?"

Looking up, Doyle shook his head. "No. It is I who should beg your pardon." The stableman's gruff kindness threatening to overset him, he blinked furiously. 

"Then we'll say no more about it. It can be no easy thing startin' off at a new place," excused Grimsby with the serenity of a man who had known no other world. "Let's be having you." 

"I fear I cannot rise," Doyle muttered, reluctant to admit the humiliating truth. His jaw clenched as another cramping pain knotted his side. 

"'Tis me who should be suffering from rheumatics. I'll give you a hand." Glimpsing blood on his palm, Grimsby turned up the lantern and without warning tore open the back of Doyle's shirt. 

"Joseph did this?" Appalled at the wanton cruelty of it, Grimsby sank onto his haunches next to Doyle, who nodded. "And this? Who did this?" A careful finger traced the over-warm skin around the ugly ridge of the wound in Doyle's side. 

"Ah! Footpads. It re-opened - " 

" - the moment I set you to work. Why wasn't I told? Small wonder you've bin so slow. You could've bled to death. You know you've a fever? I'd best inform the master. As if I haven't enough work on my hands," he added, grumbling because he felt guilty at having failed to realise Doyle was injured. 

Struggling to rise Doyle lurched against the mare, who bore his struggles placidly. "I shouldn't trouble yourself. It was your master who gave Joseph his orders." 

Turning Doyle's face into the light with ungentle fingers, Grimsby's expression was fierce. "You can dismiss that notion from your mind right now. The master don't have a vicious bone in his body. You enraged him on purpose. He meant you to smart for it, no more. No, this was Joseph taking advantage. You can leave Joseph for me to settle with," he added, having suspected the groom of bullying some of the younger lads without being able to prove it. "Hold on to me. I'll get you tended to." 

Doyle resisted the gentle pressure for a moment. "Why? Why should you care?" he asked in puzzlement. 

"Why? Because, you unnatural little bastard, I wouldn't leave a rat in the state you've bin left in, that's way," roared Grimsby, his patience sorely tried. 

"Oh," said Doyle weakly. He gave a grin which took the stableman by surprise before sliding unconscious onto the straw at Grimsby's feet.


	3. Chapter 3

THREE

_...every day confirms my belief at the inconsistency of all human characters, and the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of either merit or sense._

 

Dismounting, a convulsive movement quickly stilled from deep within the shadows attracted Bodie's attention. One hand absently smoothing his grey's neck he gazed around him, no more than mildly curious. The hour far advanced, the stable yard was deserted save for the sleepy groom waiting to take his mount. Handing over the reins, he waved the man away with a brief smile, watching him disappear from view before he spoke. 

"You there, having waited this long you may as well come forward instead of skulking in the shadows." His peremptory tone produced another scuffling movement before a gawky figure slid into the small circle of light, its head bent, hands twisted together. 

"Good God!" exclaimed Bodie in astonished recognition. He had not spared the simpleton a thought for many a year, only now recalling his father's kindness to Gordon. He experienced a prick of shame at how low he had sunk. He should have known Gordon was still about the place and ensured he was fairly treated, for unless matters had improved he was in no case to protect himself. His slow wits made him the butt of many. 

Sober despite the lateness of the hour and unconscious of Gordon fidgeting uneasily in front of him, Bodie was deep in thought. Having seen the clear signs of neglect on the outlying farms he knew he had evaded his responsibilities for too long. The estate deserved better than to fall into rack and ruin, having given him many a happy hour as a boy. It had been the memory of those carefree days which had led him to return here, seeking refuge from a world which had become wearisome. 

Upon his return to England Bodie had found himself out of step with polite society, tiring of London within a sennight. Refusing to concede as much he had reopened the town house and sought oblivion from wherever it could be found, swiftly gaining himself a reputation which barred him from all but the most raffish elements of Society. He had been unaware of the disapprobation of the haughty dowagers, his chosen path far removed from hopeful chits scarce out of the schoolroom. But opera singers and the gaming tables had soon lost their allure, sporting wagers once so diverting coming to seem a pointless exercise to a man unable to erase the memory of friends who would never saunter into _Brooks's_ to greet him. Town life became insupportable. Surrounded by green youths of no originality, or the wounded and the maimed seeking to escape their memories in a life of dissipation, he had retreated to his country estate. Brandy had been his constant companion since then, but to drink himself senseless had proved to be no easy task for a man who had always possessed an inordinately hard head. Bodie persevered, to the extent that but for the good offices of Archie he would probably have contrived to break his neck on the stairs - if he had not first burnt the Hall down around his ears. 

Unable to remember much about the previous two years, now he noticed that while the yard was neat as a new pin, the outbuildings were in sad need of repair; repairs he remembered authorising Turner to make months ago. While incompetence could be tolerated, dishonesty could not. He should have dismissed the man long since, having taken him on only as a favour to a friend seeking a situation for an indigent cousin. But Max was dead. As well for Simon Turner that was the case, Bodie reflected grimly, knowing there was much hard work to be done if the estate was to be set to rights. 

It occurred to him that, for the time being at least, it was a task he could undertake. He had been idle for too long. Work was supposed to provide a successful anodyne to grief. Tomorrow he would put it to the test, he decided with a new-found resolve. Only then did he think to turn his attention back to the pitiful creature who stood in front of him. 

"So, Gordon, it has been many a year since I clapped eyes on you," he said affably. "What brings you out into the yard at this time of night? Surely you do not work in the stables?" Saul is the kindest of men, but not, overburdened with patience. 

Trembling like a man with the ague, Gordon shook his head, his fingers knotted around each other. "I - I work in the s-scullery, sir," he managed to gasp. 

His face blank with distaste Bodie averted his gaze from the fleck of spittle sparkling on the undistinguished chin, at a loss to account for Gordon's unmistakable terror. Calling on what little patience he could muster, he offered an encouraging smile. "Perhaps that accounts for why I have not seen you about the place." A prick of conscience made him add, "Are you happy in your current situation?" 

Deprived of speech by the unheard of query, happiness having little to do with a bootblack's lot in life, Gordon rolled his eyes and fell silent. It had taken all his courage to desert his duties and he had been waiting a long time for his master to return home. Now, standing in front of Bodie's forbidding figure, his meagre stock of courage seeped away, leaving him certain he would be dismissed for his audacity at putting himself forward in this manner. 

Gordon knew himself to be slow at tasks others found easy, clumsy where others were deft. His existence had been one of permanent anxiety with high points of terror and troughs of despair, until the day he had been unceremoniously hauled away from his duties and ordered to tend to the stranger in the attic. After Doyle's initial rejection of his services Gordon had been shown a new world, one in which he might be of some use. For the first time he found himself anticipating what the day would bring with pleasure rather than dread. His new master took the trouble to explain the manner in which a task was to be performed, betraying no signs of irritation if he had to repeat his instructions, as was often the case. Gordon quickly found himself trying to earn the other man's smile of approval, murmured thanks in those warm, husky tones more than repaying his laboured efforts to concentrate. Because he was no longer bullied or treated as a halfwit, Gordon's confidence and abilities improved to the point where even Mrs Greton, the cook, was heard to remark upon the change in him. 

Then Mister Doyle had quit his bed days before he should have thought of doing so, only to be banished to the stables. Gordon's anxiety for his master's well-being had not been alleviated by the visit he had made to him. He had asked what questions he dared of the household servants, few of whom were aware of Doyle's existence, being more concerned with the scandalous doings of the scullery maid. He had been unable to discover why his master had been banished, or how he was faring. Gordon feared badly, his suspicions confirmed when he overheard Joseph, who had crept into the scullery to impress his latest conquest, boasting of having taught the new stable-lad a thing or two. Gordon was under no illusions. For all Mister Doyle's forbearance with himself he had a haughty manner and a sharp tongue. Why, it hadn't taken him a trice to put Miles in a rare old pelter. Turned the old scroat purple, he did. That was one side of the coin. _You must call me Ray, not Mister Doyle, for I am no more or less than you, Gordon._ Fine words, for all that he lied. 

When Doyle's fever had been at its height his disjointed ramblings had taught Gordon that it was not just the likes of himself who could be slighted and misused. He had made no reference to what he had learnt, his silence stemming not from fear of reprisals but from compassion. It was that emotion which had given him the courage to seek out the one man in a position to ease Mister Doyle's present plight. 

"By this prolonged silence I take it you are not happy. Are you ill-treated?" Bodie's tone sharpened. While he was unwilling to believe that anyone in his employ would sink low enough to misuse one who was so without a defence he knew that Archie and Turner, for their own reasons, told him only what they thought he should know. Peeling off his riding gloves, he tried again. "Come, there is no need for you to shake so. I rarely bite. You wished to see me - urgently I would guess. For what purpose?" 

"Y-yes, s-sir," stuttered Gordon. "A-about..." He trailed off into incoherence, his tongue knotted by terror. Tears of frustration at his inability to overcome it seeped from his eyes. 

"Oh, for pity's sake!" exclaimed Bodie in exasperation. "Say what you have to and be done with it!" 

Hearing the same hard note of impatience which crept into everyone's voice when he tried to talk to them, Gordon's nerve broke. Giving an inarticulate wail he fled back into the shadows. 

Ruffled by his maladroit handling of the matter, Bodie waited a few moments, calling Gordon's name. Nothing stirred in the stable yard, the cloudy night sky making it impossible to see more than a few feet away from the circle of light. The question of what could have been troubling Gordon to the degree that he would take the step of seeking him out was something Bodie knew he would have to resolve. Tomorrow, he promised himself as he made his way into the house that was empty save for servants paid to care for his well-being. Lord, the promises he had made this evening. Fine sentiments all, but he would have to keep them. He owed his father better than to die a drunkard before his thirtieth year. Good God, he would be vowing to seek a bride next! 

That depressing notion turned Bodie back in the direction of his book-room. Tomorrow he would be the soul of abstinence but for now... For now he would enjoy one last evening with his most faithful companion, one who, if he persevered, could be relied upon to obliterate the memories of a time when he had been happy. 

 

"Give your tongue a rest till I've got ye settled, do," growled Grimsby as he half-supported, half-carried Doyle into a windowless sanctum within the stable complex, having first crept home to fetch some things he would need. 

Realising that the older man was going to tend to his hurts irrespective of his wishes, Doyle concentrated on remaining conscious, pain from the wound in his side aiding his task. 

"Here we be. Don't try an' move until I've - " Interrupted by a gasp, Grimsby shot out a hand, hauling Doyle back to his feet. "What did I tell 'ee? Now stand fast till I've got the lamp lit, do. I've no mind to go scooping you off the floor again." There was a short pause while Doyle did as he had been commanded and the room was flooded with a soft light. "That's better. Now, let's have a look at 'ee." 

Unsteady with pain and fever Doyle remained upright only by dint of his white-knuckled grasp of the chair back, trying not to flinch away from the stableman's gentle, investigatory touch. 

"Mmn, well you're no pretty sight, but it's nought I can't put to rights. If you keep still an' give over arguin'." 

"I'm sorry," offered Doyle meekly for the third time in as many minutes. Despite his discomfort there was a thread of amusement in his voice as he recognised the concern behind the stableman's gruff complaints. 

"Oh aye? That makes two o' us, then. You're no light-weight to be saddled with, particularly at this time of night." Grimsby concentrated on removing the tattered shirt, swearing under his breath when Doyle flinched at his touch. 

"I'm sorry," Doyle mumbled automatically, his heavy curls clinging to his sweat-slick forehead. 

"You will be by the time I'm through wi' ye. Get those breeches off and yourself spread belly down on yonder bed ready for me." The harsh command was reinforced by the sound of stiff leather being unbuckled and the rustle of clothing being removed. 

Doyle froze. It negated all he thought he knew of Saul Grimsby, but he had been wrong in his judgements before. Time to pay for the few moments of kindness, he thought sickly, turning to see Grimsby drag off his heavy jerkin. Pale with this new shock, Doyle's stricken gaze dropped to study the floor. He could fight, or try to, or he could get it over with. He knew he lacked the strength to defeat the burly stableman. Besides, from all he had heard the act would not take long to complete. He fumbled at the waistband of his breeches before his hands stilled. 

"I cannot," he said harshly, revulsion at the thought of submitting tightening his voice. 

"Can't what?" asked Grimsby absently, rummaging through a cupboard. 

"Bed with you." 

"What the devil be you talking about?" Puzzlement turned to comprehension, Grimsby's outrage leaving him momentarily bereft of speech. "You unnatural, perverted little runt! What the hell d'ye imagine I - ?" Quick as a spring shower his anger tailed off as he realised how the misunderstanding could have arisen. In the ensuing silence he saw Doyle's weary defiance overtaken by dismay and mortification. 

"'T'would be difficult to tend your hurts through several layers of cloth. I wanted you lyin' down afore you fell down. For my own part I'm damned if I need an excuse to tak' off a belt that's been cuttin' me in half all day!" Grimsby's severe expression eased as he studied the downbent head of the half-naked man in front of him. The lad was well-formed, if battered, and with something about him that... Quality born or no, with the world as it is that order might be one he's heard before, and with no choice but to obey it. No one could say he was eager. 

"Have done," he added with gruff kindness. "But lest there be any doubt in your mind, mebbe I should mention that my fancy hasn't varied in the twenty-two years Molly an' me's been wed. An' I can't see a young sprig like you temptin' me to change. Young fool," he added, tolerant now. 

His blurred gaze on the uneven floorboards Doyle wished they would open to swallow him up. He knew what the older man must assume and was in no position to resent the slur. Taking a deep breath, he muttered a disjointed apology. Not knowing what else he could do, he clumsily undressed to lie face down on the narrow truckle bed. Despite himself every muscle was locked with tension. Humiliated and hurting, he buried his heated face in the coarse stuff of the pillow. 

"One thing that goes in your favour as well as agin you, you're not slow to make up your mind," remarked Grimsby, mollified by the younger man's acceptance of his word. But the brief misunderstanding had destroyed the ease which had begun to grow between them and he was as aware of that loss as Doyle, disconcerted that it should trouble him. He ran his stables and went home to his wife, wanting no more out of life than that. Having many passing acquaintances, Grimsby had no need of friends and little interest in gaining any. "Before we make a start you'd best get some o' this inside you," he said, handing over a generous measure of the brandy he kept close at hand for solace during the nights when he sat up with a sick animal. "'Twill stop that shiverin' and make tendin' you easier for both of us." 

Avoiding the stableman's gaze, reluctant to see the censure he knew must be there, Doyle shook his head, recalling the last time he had partaken of strong spirits. "Thank you, but no." 

"Still doubt me, eh?" Raising the tankard, Grimsby took a luxurious mouthful. "'Tis nothing but brandy. Use thy head, lad. If I was that desperate for 'ee I'd not need this for help, would I?" His tone relegated the incident to no more than a shared jest. 

Staring up into the seamed face Doyle found himself under a frank appraisal that was devoid of contempt or desire. He had become accustomed to seeing both, sometimes in the same face. With a defeated sigh he propped himself up on one elbow and took the tankard. "No, I don't suppose you would," he conceded with a wry smile. "Your health." He spluttered as he gulped down the spirit, warmth exploding through him. And that was a waste of good liquor, Grimsby recognised sadly. He might as well have offered him horse liniment for all the pleasure he was taking from it.

"That's the way," he encouraged. "Soon warm 'ee, that will. If you'll turn onto your side I'll get that wound cleaned afore you bleed over the blankets." 

The heat of the brandy coiling headily through him, Doyle's voice betrayed his weakness. "I am a fool to have been so in error regarding your intent. While our acquaintance has been both short and unconventional, I know enough of you to be certain of all that is important. Forgive me?" 

"Don't talk daft," admonished Grimsby. "You've a way with you, though I'm damned if I know what name to give it. What were it that convinced 'ee I was to be trusted?" he added, hoping to distract his patient as he began to examine the ugly wound, muttering under his breath at the poor skill of whoever had had the previous care of it. 

Doyle offered a crooked grin. "Remembering my sight of Mrs Grimsby yesterday. She is very beautiful." 

Grimsby snorted. "An' what's that to do with anything?" The soft, relaxed chuckle his query elicited made him pause. 

"Very little, I suppose. But it is about the only charge which has never been laid at my door. That's why it always seemed strange to me that some men should - " Doyle ground to a halt, having no desire to remember any of them, or their confusing advances. 

A work-scarred hand turned his face into the light. "You're not in the ordinary way, that's for sure, but you'll do. There's many 'ud give plenty to have your face and form." Grimsby knew a moment's chill when Doyle stared through him. 

"I discovered that much for myself." Accustomed to hearing himself described as ugly, Doyle had not recognised the awkward compliment, nor would he have cared for it if he had. 

With a rare tact Grimsby did not pursue the point. "You'll not be troubled by any o' that nonsense amongst our lads. Here, drink some more o' this." Leaving the side of the bed to busy himself with the salve he was preparing, he glanced back to his patient. "While I think on it, you've no call to fret yourself over what you'll be wearin' when I've done with you. There's a couple o' shirts, a pair of breeches and a jerkin at the foot of the bed. My youngest's they were. He were near enough to your height when - They'll fit you better than t'others at any rate. And you ain't got no call to go thanking me again," he added with uncommon haste, "they weren't doin' no more than attractin' moths in the closet." 

"No, but - " 

"Drink your drink and keep still," said Grimsby roughly, wondering at the sentiment which had led him to disinter his dead son's clothes. He had yet to tell his wife, uncertain of what her reaction would be. 

Quick to sense his companion's change of mood, Doyle stared fixedly at the pillow, the muscles of his back rigid with renewed tension. "Yes, Mister Grimsby." 

What was amiss that he should be so set-down at the smallest slight? he wondered, disgusted with himself. The stableman had been uncommonly forbearing, it wasn't to be wondered at if he should now find himself regretting his earlier kindness. 

The flattened voice and dejected set of the bowed head were not to the stableman's taste, although he was in no doubt that the younger man would be a rare handful when fit. Besides, Billy's death had been - Fortune o' war, he reminded himself bitterly. Seeking to bury his memories and curious about his charge, he hastened into speech. 

"How the likes o' you ever came to set down amongst us is something that beats me." 

"At the Hall?" Having assumed a lurid tale would have gone the rounds, Doyle half-turned in surprise and gave a yelp of pain. "Sorry," he said, the response ingrained by now. 

A weighted sigh wafted past his left ear. "There are those," said Grimsby ponderously, "who maintain that horses be the most chuckleheaded animal they know. Me, I can think of others more addle-pated. Didn't I tell 'ee to keep still, or d'ye suppose I like hearing the sound of my own voice?" 

Despite Doyle's prudent silence he received a cuff which did no more than ruffle his hair. 

"Cheeky young pup. You're a great one for evadin' the issue. How did you come here?" 

Tensing as the stableman began the delicate task of cleaning his wound Doyle made a halting explanation, omitting only his destination and private fears. 

"Travelling's an unchancy business," announced Grimsby with the authority of one who had never moved more than ten miles from his birthplace. "You was lucky not to get your gizzard slit." He poured out some more brandy. "Drink it. This is goin' to hurt." 

"It already does," Doyle informed him with a tart lack of gratitude, his eyes watering. Emptying the tankard thrust at him he became aware that the walls were betraying an unlooked for propensity to undulate. 

Recognising the signs, Grimsby began to bandage the wound, causing Doyle to swear with some feeling. As the pain became more distant he reopened his eyes. Blinking in the candlelight, his tongue flicked over his lips to remove the last trace of brandy. It was more palatable than he had first supposed. "I am putting you to a great deal of trouble," he remarked sleepily as he listened to the older man pottering around the room. 

"That's true enough. Hold up, I was but jesting," said Grimsby on seeing Doyle stir, as if to rise. "I dunno where you think you're off to. I've not done with 'ee yet. You've a deal to learn about some things, brandy for one. 'Tis best savoured. Here, and sip this." 

"Yes, Saul." His eyes bright with mischief and fever, Doyle took dainty mouthfuls, a heavy-limbed languor overtaking his discomfort. "You are quite correct," he announced with surprise, "it is best savoured." 

Subduing a grin, Grimsby boiled more water and found clean rags. "One thing you've not mentioned - your name, lad. Who are you? And don't be giving me the same claptrap you fed the master. Just tell me straight if you're not minded to trust me." 

Turning with caution, Doyle studied the stableman's lined face with some suspicion before he gave a rueful nod. "You do that very well," he remarked with admiration. "I've no doubt there are many who have been deceived by that air of wounded dignity. You'd play them like a fish on a line. Green I may be, that green I am not. You know damn well I trust you." 

Disconcerted, the stableman scowled. There was no disputing the fact the lad was quick as a ferret. Damned if the young devil wasn't laughing at him. But there was no malice in it, just appreciation and...affection. Lord knows he'd done little enough to earn it, but there it was, plain as day.

"Mebbe I do at that," he conceded gruffly. "So why won't you tell me?" 

Doyle shook his head. "It is best I do not. If your master should ask, you can tell him in all honesty that you do not know. You hold him in great regard. I would not have you placed in a position where you must lie to one of us." 

"You suppose I'd do that to you?" 

Doyle's brandy-hazed gaze was surprisingly shrewd. "If you thought it would benefit me in the long term you would lie shamelessly." His smile took any sting out of the words. 

"Sharp as a needle, you be. Have it your own way, but I can see you mean to. Headstrong ain't the word for you. But if you're still hopin' to cozen me into believin' you're other than Quality bred you can save your breath. 'Tis obvious to a fool." 

Doyle's expression neither confirmed nor denied the assertion. Sighing, Grimsby abandoned the topic and drew the cork from a bottle of lotion before applying the milky-coloured liquid to a soft cloth. 

"This is for your back, now I've cleaned it. It'll smart." The muffled stream of invective from his patient seemed to bear out his warning. "Fine language! If you was a lad of mine I'd've washed your mouth out long since," Grimsby admonished, pausing to give the younger man a chance to recover his breath before he finished his uncongenial task. 

"I'm - " 

" - sorry? Huh!" He gave the bowed head an unseen smile. "No doubt I'll survive. But 'tis foolish to pretend you're other than stiff-necked. I doubt you'll pay me any heed but I'll tell thee anyway. You'd do well to remember the master ain't a fool if you're minded to continue with this mummery. When his temper cools you'll find he'll not seek to keep you here against your will. Master William's got his faults but cheese-parin' ain't one of them. He's generous to a fault, always has been." 

His back smarting abominably, Doyle made a muffled sound of disbelief. 

"You've no one to blame for this but yourself," Grimsby told him unsympathetically, but his touch was as delicate as he could contrive over the torn flesh, drawing up a clean sheet taken from his own linen cupboard before he added a coarse blanket for warmth. "I knew the master's father and I know him. It was me that gave Master William his first riding lesson. Would it hurt to tell him the truth? And while we're clearin' the air, you'd best call me Saul. Seems like I didn't teach you much the other day, you've let it slip once already." 

"Oh. You have no objection?" 

"Only to being bamboozled," said Grimsby comfortably. "Have another sip o' this."

Doyle's nose re-emerged from the tankard. "My name is Ray." 

"So it might be, it's Mister Doyle to the likes of me," replied Grimsby, his decision made. He'd see the master whether Archie thought he should be disturbed or not. The stables were no place for those Quality born; the lad should be back home, safe amongst his own kind. 

"Ray," insisted Doyle, propping himself up on an unsteady elbow to make his point. 

Grimsby's fist nudged the pugnacious set of his chin. "Don't you ever give up?" he asked in exasperation. 

"Very rarely. And whatever I might be my name is Raymond. It would please me if you would use it," Doyle coaxed. 

"Born to be hung, you were. 'Tis a pity your da didn't tan your hide when you was young, 'stead of leavin' the task to others." 

All trace of animation fled from Doyle's face. "Very likely," he agreed, burying his face in his folded arms. 

There were times when silence could say more than a hour of speech. Grimsby sat heavily on the only chair; the night was half gone and he was longing for his bed. "You the youngest?" 

The sweat-tangled head nodded, then was shaken. "By my father's first marriage. I have - had - an elder brother. We were not alike." 

The stableman nodded to himself. "Have a lot to do with your da when you was a lad, did you?" 

"Why? No matter, if it interests you. Very little. I would contrive errands so that I might watch him about the house, but I doubt if he noticed me. Eventually he had no option but to acknowledge my existence as his heir. I arrived in his study expecting... Lord, who knows now what I was expecting. Not what I learnt, that's for sure. Far from intending to increase our acquaintance, my father wished only that it was I who had perished rather than surviving to bring shame to the family name. What the hell am I telling you this for?" 

There was a splintered silence the moment Doyle realised how much he was betraying. Studying the blanket, he added with obvious care, "My wits are wandering. Blame it on the brandy which, quite apart from making me maudlin, has loosened my tongue to an abominable degree." 

Grimsby ignored the ignominious shake in the otherwise too controlled voice. "You're no unique. It does that to most folk, only they ain't all sharp enough to realise it." Wishing to give the younger man time to regain his composure, he rose to his feet, busying himself in tidying away the soiled rags. "I was plannin' on taking you to my place, but I reckon you'll do better to stay here for the night. The bed's comfortable enough and my stairs be mortal steep even for ones that's sober. I don't want you slippin' and starting off the bleeding again." 

Trying to shake off his brandy-induced languor Doyle stirred. "It is a generous thought but I must leave." 

His hands on his hips, Grimsby frowned when he saw the determination in the colourless face. "You're thinkin' of quittin' the Hall?" 

"I must." 

"Aye? Well, leavin' aside your obligation to the master, which is something the pair of you must resolve for yourselves, you're in no case to get beyond the gates. I've no mind to see my labours undone. A few days more can't hurt." 

His head swimming with the effort it had taken him to achieve the vertical, Doyle swayed. "To myself, no, but I have pressing obligations above those I owe to your master. Forgive me, I am not ungrateful for what you have done but I must go." 

"What's to stop me clippin' you round the jaw for your own good?" demanded Grimsby, serious beneath the half-jest. 

Unsteadily donning clean breeches, Doyle looked up when he had fastened the final button. "Very little, save possibly the fact I trusted you enough to tell you more than I ought. Don't make me fight you, Saul." 

Grimsby took a calming swallow of brandy. "You must know there's little sense in pratin' about honour to one that's no more than a humble stableman." 

His bitter tone brought Doyle's head round. "Don't you dare presume to - " His anger overtaken by comprehension, he sighed. "If you possess a humble bone in your body I haven't been permitted sight of it. Have done, Saul. I am not eager to go but I must. Those who work under you are more fortunate than they can know." 

"Indeed they are, as you seem to have been privileged to discover." 

The interruption was like a douche of cold water to the two men hitherto oblivious to the presence of a third party. Bodie stood in the doorway, one shoulder elegantly displayed against the door jamb. 

Wondering sickly how long he had been outside, how much he had heard and what advantage he would take from that knowledge, Doyle stopped in his tracks. Only the stableman's steadying hand prevented him from crumpling to the floor. He was given no opportunity to say anything on his own account. 

"Privileged, you say? There's some, myself for one, who'd doubt it. Joseph has a heavier hand than either of us thought to remember. Mister Doyle was in sore need of a physician afore Joseph laid into him." Grimsby's sturdy figure radiated disapproval. 

"Was he?" Bodie raised a puzzled eyebrow, before recalling the scene of the morning with a prickle of irritation. "No more than he deserved," he dismissed. 

"You think so?" said Grimsby, gesturing back to Doyle, having stepped in front of him before the younger man could utter whatever imprudent phrase had been hovering on the tip of his tongue. 

In no mind to parade his hurts to the world Doyle made a virtue of necessity and sat on the edge of the bed. 

Moving with the too careful tread of one who was not completely sober, Bodie crossed the room to study Doyle's angry face, seeing beyond that now. His expression easing, he took hold of a naked shoulder, turning Doyle to the light. 

There was a moment's silence. 

"I was mistaken," Bodie conceded. "And at no small cost." Releasing Doyle with the same care with which he had taken hold of him, he offered a wry smile, noting that the belligerent gaze neither softened nor faltered before his own. "And you, I suppose, will culminate your folly by insisting nothing is amiss." 

Scarcely knowing what he was doing Doyle fumbled into the shirt Grimsby had provided for him, uneasy under that hungry, sombre gaze. He directed his attention to the wall behind a well-tailored shoulder. "It is obvious I shall be in the wrong whatever I say." His manner was less than conciliatory. 

Relaxed by the lateness of the hour and the amount of brandy he had imbibed, Bodie was in the mood to be tolerant. "What do you make of our young fire-eater, Saul?" 

His expression one of sour displeasure, having recognised there was small hope of getting much sense out of his master tonight, Grimsby sniffed. "Seein' as how everyone thinks to treat me like a simpleton, I dunno why you should care what my opinion be. The pair o' you can tell me what stories you choose, I ain't so green that I can't see he don't belong here - not to live and certainly not to work, no matter how much he riled 'ee. And you know it, Master William." 

Accepting the reproof, Bodie pulled a rueful face before sinking onto the only chair. Tilting it hazardously back on two legs he offered his henchman a smile of encompassing sweetness. 

"I know it," he allowed, rubbing his face. "My damnable temper, you see. But three parts foxed I am renowned for my amicable nature. This morning I was sober." His gaze turned to Doyle. "Having admitted my fault, may I prevail upon you to accept my hospitality whilst I try to make amends?" 

Certain he was being mocked Doyle remained silent, knowing that the warmth in the blue eyes turned so engagingly upon him could swiftly change. 

Bodie extended a well-manicured hand. "You have been shamefully used, but I will do what I can to rectify the situation. In truth, your own intransigence was much to blame." 

"Pair of bloody fools more like," snorted Grimsby sourly. 

"Enough, Saul. You may leave Joseph for me to deal with. I permit no one to abuse a position of trust." Remorse for what had occurred sharpened his voice. "While we are on the topic, you mentioned that Joseph has an uncommonly heavy hand. Has he dared to give it free rein before?" 

"He has." 

Sensitive to the censure in the older man's voice, Bodie flushed. "Why did no one see fit to tell me what was going on?" It sounded lame even to his own ears. 

"They probably assumed you knew," said Doyle with contempt, his entrance into the conversation taking his companions by surprise. "Listen to you! Have you no concept where the fault lies? Wealth and position do not absolve you of responsibility, they increase it. You are expected to care for, even if you cannot bring yourself to evince much interest in, those whose welfare depends upon your existence." 

"Are you presuming to take me to task?" Bodie's voice was dangerously soft as he straightened in his chair. 

"It's time someone took the trouble to," Doyle retorted. "If the stables are any indication of your interest, the estate has been allowed to fall into rack and ruin while you drink yourself insensible. Is that the behaviour of a gentleman?" He wished that remark unsaid even before hard fingers closed over his shoulders, Bodie's furious face scant inches away. The expression in his eyes, behind the camouflage of anger, made Doyle drop his gaze in shame.

"If you - " Bodie was never given the opportunity to complete what he had been about to say. 

For Doyle events of the next few moments were confused as Bodie was hidden by a whirlwind of flying fists and feet which Doyle belatedly recognised as Gordon. 

"No!" he shouted, restraining the stableman when he would have intervened. "Gordon, stop!" He succeeded in blocking the blow aimed at Bodie's incredulous face but caught off-balance recognised Bodie's defence too late to save himself. The blow caught him over his injured side, Bodie committed by anger to the punch before he appreciated it was misdirected.


	4. Chapter 4

FOUR 

_\- That would be the greatest misfortune of all! - To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate!_

 

Waking to sensations of comfort and warmth and reluctant to make any precipitate movement which might bring that blissful state to an end, Doyle drowsily absorbed the small sounds of life around him; a creak of timber, the hiss of a log burning and muted stirrings which he could not immediately identify. His memory of the events which had brought him to his tranquil haven were hazy, his mind unco-ordinated, half-defined thoughts slipping away before they could assume substance. The crisp clean linen against his bare skin offered the pleasing, elusive aroma of lavender and he became aware of a more abrasive fabric scrunched beneath his cheek - lace. 

In a stable? 

Struggling to raise himself, Doyle's breath hissed inwards as pain pierced his heavy-limbed languor. His eyes starting open, he blinked up into the seamed brown face of the stranger hovering over him. 

"You're awake then," remarked Archie. 

In considerable discomfort, too disorientated to do more than nod, Doyle moistened his lips with his tongue, his wide-eyed gaze never leaving the older man's face. 

"Dinna fash yoursel', laddie. 'Twas the master who bade me tae tend t'ye," offered Archie in a rare burst of verbosity. "Close on a week it's bin, an' a rare old time I've had wi' ye." His tone made it plain he had no love of ministering to the sick, but for all his dour manner the hand supporting Doyle's neck was gentle enough. "Here, get this down, 'twill ease the pain." 

Lacking the strength to question or argue Doyle took an obedient mouthful and promptly gagged; the thick potion tasted disgusting. Finding the tumbler being ruthlessly tilted, he could do no more than swallow the mixture lest he choke. Settled back against the pillows, his head spinning, he became aware of the bright eyes studying him with a dispassionate interest. 

"How d'ye feel noo?" 

"Confused," mumbled Doyle with truth. Finding it impossible to keep his eyes open any longer, he abandoned the attempt. 

When next Doyle was aware of his surroundings he discovered himself to be in a dark-shadowed room, a small branch of candles on the mantelshelf and the flickering flames of the fire offering the only untrustworthy light. Remembering caution on this occasion, he eased himself up in bed. What he could see of the room was unfamiliar, the measure of luxury in the furnishings making it obvious these were not servants' quarters. His mind clouded, every movement seemed to require intense concentration. He knew the aftermath of a fever could not account for his muzzy sense of disorientation or the strange taste in his mouth. Consuela's doing? he wondered, but with no great sense of urgency. Glimpsing a small glass sitting on the occasional table by the bedside, he reached out to retrieve it, labouriously righting himself before dipping his index finger into the dregs. Collecting up some of the sediment, he tested it with his tongue tip, his face scrunching with disgust as he resolved to take no more of it. He could recall all too clearly the dreams which had crowded in on him whilst he had been trapped in the oblivion the mixture provided. 

"Did you fear we intended to poison you?" 

Startled by the voice from the shadows, Doyle's grasp on the tumbler relaxed and it slipped to the floor. 

"Let it rest," commanded Bodie when he saw Doyle reach for it and wince. Setting down the branch of candles he stooped to retrieve the glass, turning it slowly in his fingers while he studied the man on the bed. 

"What did it contain?" asked Doyle, very conscious of that unwavering scrutiny. 

"Laudanum for the pain, herbs for the fever. The wound in your side was putrid. It was hoped the mixture would bring you ease. It certainly made you loquacious," added Bodie in a tone Doyle instantly mistrusted. 

Worrying about what he might have let slip, Doyle found it difficult to focus his mind. Scowling, he tried to pinpoint an elusive memory. "Gordon!" he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. "What has become of him?" 

"Rest easy. He has explained all, including his own unhappy plight, and is now safely ensconced with the Grimsbys until such time as you are fit enough to survive his ministrations." Drawing up a chair by the bedside, Bodie gained an unimpeded view of the expressions traversing a face which must always have been too revealing for its owner's well-being. 

"You didn't - ?" 

" - harm a hair on his head," anticipated Bodie. "Cease to trouble yourself about Gordon's welfare. In truth, he is better placed than you. Molly Grimsby has taken him under her wing, having first given me a tremendous scold for failing to notice what went on in my household. It was as fine a tongue-lashing as I've ever suffered." His tone of morose resignation caused Doyle to give an involuntary smile. 

"It wasn't amusing at the time," Bodie assured him. 

"If Mrs Grimsby possesses half the eloquence of her spouse when roused, I do not doubt you." 

"Double," said Bodie with gloom, rewarded when another grin briefly eradicated the strain on his guest's face. 

"Then permit me to tender my condolences." Recalled to his far from humorous present, Doyle frowned. "May I enquire where I am?" Gesturing to the splendours of the room, his speculative gaze remained on the man so elegantly displayed in the brocade-covered chair. 

"At the Hall, of course," said Bodie, surprised there should be any doubt. "You are occupying the room adjoining my own." Pale-faced and dark browed he avoided the other man's searching gaze. "You were brought here after I knocked you insensible. By the time you regained consciousness the fever had taken hold. There was a period when we feared for your life. It was Archie's despised potion which did the trick." 

"Archie?" interrupted Doyle, having no wish to hear a recital of the course of his malady. 

"Dour and Scottish?" prompted Bodie, a smile relaxing the severity of his features when he saw comprehension dawn on his companion's face. 

"And who has had enough of tending me," completed Doyle, remembering an earlier exchange. "I had forgotten. Small blame to him for his lack of enthusiasm. I seem to have set your household in an uproar." 

"Domestic arrangements have undergone something of an alteration," allowed Bodie. He elaborated in the hope of winning another of those smiles. "My secretary is currently residing at _The White Hart_ in Stapleforth, from where he will seek a new post. Miles, too, has left my employ. While his absence quiets my conscience to a degree, and delights Gordon, his replacement does not arrive until tomorrow. Cook is threatening to give notice - no mean threat given the difficulty in gaining staff in this out of the way spot - and one of the footmen contrived to break his leg. Oh, and the scullery maid is in an interesting condition, although to be sure I cannot lay the blame for that at your door. In short, the servants' quarters are in uproar." 

"At least you are sober enough to appreciate the change," remarked Doyle, approving of the clear eyes, steady hands and crisp speech of his host. 

Outraged, Bodie managed to swallow a sharp set-down. "Just so." A hot colour ran up over Doyle's face for all his restraint. 

Having unwittingly achieved the snub he had resisted administering Bodie was aware of a sense of shame. While he enjoyed admitting his faults no more than the next man, Doyle's treatment left him with no alternative but to review his own behaviour. He was proud of none of it. "You are quite correct," he continued in more of his usual tone. "I am also sober enough to admit you have been shamefully used. I wish to extend my apologies for my behaviour." 

"To a groom?" Doyle's raised eyebrows were an eloquent expression of polite surprise. 

"Don't!" protested Bodie involuntarily. Unconscious of the puzzled gaze which tracked his restless passage across the room, he stood by the window, fidgeting with a tasselled cord. "I am aware that an apology can hardly be considered adequate recompense for what you have endured. Whether foxed or sober I have no excuse to offer. Whatever your situation in life you were entitled to more consideration than you received. I have not forgotten you were anxious to resume your journey but I trust you will permit me to - " His voice faded away upon seeing Doyle's stricken expression. 

Concerned, Bodie hastened to his side, his hand cool against the other man's heated skin. "The fever seems to have returned. I should not have kept you talking thus. I'd best call Archie," he added helplessly, not knowing what other remedy to offer. 

"I'm well enough," dismissed Doyle, shrugging free of the contact. "It's just - How could I have forgotten," he murmured, as if to himself. 

"You refer to some urgent commission?" 

"Urgent indeed. My one fear is that I may already be too late. I should be in your debt if you would entrust me with a mount from your stables - for no more than a week." 

"Have you lost your senses? You'd find yourself deuced hard-pressed to stand, never mind sit astride any mount from my stables." 

Having wrenched back the bed covers, Doyle admitted the truth of that claim when only Bodie's arm saved him from ignominious collapse. 

"You see?" said Bodie with the grim satisfaction of one who has been proved right. Helping the half-swooning man back onto the bed he collected up the pillows and eased Doyle against them, maintaining his clasp of Doyle's shoulder to ensure he remained there. "Enough," he added kindly. "In a week or so I don't doubt you'll be a match for any man or beast on the estate. For the present you're displaying more bottom than sense. The knife wound brought you close to death, you require time in which to heal." The muscle and sinew beneath his hand remained tense, Doyle obviously unconvinced by his argument. 

Sighing, Bodie persevered. "Even you must concede that while you cannot stand without assistance you are unlikely to be able to maintain a seat in the saddle. Will you not tell me what troubles you so?" he added in a coaxing tone. 

Seeing nothing but concern and a willingness to be of assistance in those magnificent eyes, Bodie having set aside his more irritating mannerisms, Doyle was sorely tempted to confide in him. It would be easy to lay the sorry tale before this man, whose smooth good looks and lazy manner concealed a more complex personality than one might suppose. But it could not be permitted, this a story no one must know outside the family. He must settle accounts with Consuela himself. 

"I regret that I cannot," he replied, emotion bled from his voice by fatigue. "The matter is of a most delicate nature. Besides," he added with a trace of bitterness, "I fear you would find it difficult to credit I spoke the truth, the tale is so fantastical. I've no fancy to find myself clapped in Bedlam." 

Becoming more intrigued by the moment as to the nature of the problem, Bodie eyed him in a thoughtful silence, wondering at the curious mixture of naivety and worldliness his guest betrayed. "Is it an affair of the heart?" he enquired with some delicacy, certain it could be nothing else. Doyle's undisguised astonishment made Bodie wonder anew about his chance-come-by companion. 

"I would that it were so simple," murmured Doyle, grateful that his hands had stopped shaking. 

Bodie smothered a smile. Doyle had indeed led a sheltered existence if he supposed simplicity had any bearing on the subject. "A matter of family honour, then?" 

"Just so." Doyle seized on the suggestion with obvious gratitude. 

"Ah, tricky things, families," mused Bodie, having decided the problem was no more than a sister run off with the curate, in which case, given that Doyle's journey was a fortnight delayed, Heras undoubtedly too late to save the chit. The Hall was hardly en route for Gretna Green, he remembered with a frown, doubt causing him to pursue a new tack. "Were you returning home when you were set upon?" 

Doyle gave a reluctant nod, this line of enquiry unwelcome because he suspected Bodie would prove uncomfortably astute when sober. 

"Should I send for the Runners?" 

"Good God, no! No," Doyle repeated more moderately, aware that if the Runners were brought in he might as well advertise events in The Gazette. "They could serve no useful purpose," he added lamely. 

Smoothing the cloth of his sleeve where it had been crumpled in Doyle's grasp Bodie's expression of polite concern underwent no great change; his interest in Doyle's affairs had never been stronger. "As you wish. I have a suggestion which may offer a solution to your dilemma." 

"I should welcome one," said Doyle frankly. 

"As you will clearly be out of commission for a number of days yet, may I suggest you entrust a message to your, er, family with one of my servants." 

Worrying his lower lip, Doyle considered the proposal. Realistically aware he would not be able to complete his journey at the moment, his only immediate option was to do as Bodie suggested. But what a message, he conceded, ruefully aware that he must find a way of setting out the facts in a way which would convince a devoted spouse that his wife intended to murder him, and worse, that the information came from one considered to be a worthless reprobate. Knowing he had a formidable task ahead of him he took a deep breath. 

"I should be most grateful if you could arrange for a letter to be delivered to my father." He looked anything but delighted at the prospect. 

Understanding that his guest had no wish to elaborate Bodie accepted the rebuff with good grace. However trivial the matter might prove to be in reality, anxiety was pressing down on Doyle like a millstone grinding an ear of wheat. 

"I will arrange for you to be furnished with the necessary writing materials," he promised, getting to his feet. "Once penned, with a fast mount and an ample purse the letter will be swift to reach its destination. Saul will know the best lad for the task." 

Engrossed in marshalling the facts he must present to a disinterested father and devoted spouse, Doyle gave him an absent nod of acknowledgement, never noticing when Bodie left the room. 

"A horse is saddled and ready," Bodie announced, when he returned to Doyle's bedchamber two hours later. 

"My apologies for the delay. The matter proved more complex to explain than I had anticipated." 

His eyebrows rising as he saw the thickness of the missive, Bodie understood why it had taken Doyle such an unconscionable time to write. "No apologies are necessary. Saul tells me Ned Smith is just the lad for the task. You need have no fears about entrusting your package to him for he is as close as the grave. Archie will bring him to you directly so that you may supply him with the details of his destination. I must change for dinner," he continued, making it plain that Doyle would have the privacy he so obviously sought. 

"Thank you," said Doyle in heartfelt tones. "You have been put to a great deal of trouble on my behalf." Clear-headed, if fatigued, he realised that his own behaviour had been far from conciliatory. 

Giving a singularly sweet smile, Bodie admitted to himself that he would do much to keep this man at his side. By the time they came to part he would know all there was to know of Raymond Doyle. 

"I sometimes surprise myself," he replied with mock-gravity, taking himself off as Archie stomped into the room, an overawed Ned Smith trailing behind him. 

Going to bed sober and enjoying his most peaceful night's sleep for months, Bodie rose with the dawn in preparation for a ride out to one of his tenant farmers. Mindful of his guest, he tapped quietly on Doyle's door. As he had anticipated he found Doyle asleep. From the marks of fatigue on the close-lidded face and the fact Doyle was slumped in an armchair, Bodie surmised that sleep had been a long time coming and taken his guest unawares. Leaving the room as noiselessly as he had entered it, he scandalised Cook by appearing in her kitchen in search of bread and cheese. 

Munching his impromptu meal in the cold, crisp air, he headed for the stables, severely discommoding the stable-lads, who scattered in the hope of persuading their master that they had been working rather than gossiping. Bodie dismissed all attempts to help him, saddling and bridling the grey himself. Relaxed and at ease with himself in a way he had not known for a long time, he was busy trying to devise a means of diverting Doyle's attention from the matter which was causing him so much anxiety, having no wish to see his guest fret himself into another fever. It would be some days before any answer could be expected. Short though their acquaintance had been, Bodie was prepared to wager that whatever virtues Doyle might possess patience would not prove to be one of them. 

He and Doyle had conversed until late the previous evening, finding a common ground discussing horseflesh, their conversation ranging far and wide thereafter. Prepared to concede that it would be no hardship to spend a few more hours similarly occupied as he returned from his call on the Blythe family, Bodie rode into the yard, spoke briefly with Saul Grimsby, and headed for the house. Rounding the corner, he found himself face to face with a familiar figure. 

"Gordon, how goes it with you?" he asked pleasantly, tucking the silver head of his riding whip under his arm. 

A beam and the repeated bobbing of Gordon's head seemed indicative of his new-found pleasure in life. Studying him, Bodie found the change in his appearance to be marked. After only a few days in the Grimsbys' care the pinched, furtive look was absent; his hair and person were clean and orderly and he no longer seemed frightened of his own shadow. From what Saul had intimated Gordon was making himself useful to Molly Grimsby, much to Bodie's relief. He could think of no other section of his household which would keep Gordon safe from the maliciously inclined whilst preserving the sanity of those less tolerant than Molly Grimsby. 

"I'm delighted to see you looking in such fine fettle," he continued dutifully, having remembered that Gordon was not renowned for his conversational abilities. Recalling his previous inept handling of the man, he offered an encouraging smile. 

"Mister Doyle? Be he - ? Can I see him?" 

About to make some excuse, aware that unless he had undergone a radical change of character Gordon would not be the ideal companion for the sickroom, it occurred to Bodie that worrying about Gordon's welfare might provide an excellent diversion for Doyle. "Of course. Should he be asleep we'll find you a bite to eat and a quiet corner until he stirs. There's no call to look alarmed," Bodie added as he steered Gordon into the house, "you know Miles is no longer about the place. Knowsley here will take you through to the kitchen where you can enjoy a comfortable prose with Cook and Rose while you wait." 

His apprehension reduced to manageable proportions by Bodie's mild manner Gordon obediently trailed after the aloof figure of Knowsley, who as newcomer to the Hall and his elevated station of butler was too preoccupied with his own concerns to pay Gordon much heed. 

Mounting the stairs two at a time Bodie made his way to Doyle's room, where he found his guest and Archie engaged in a spirited battle of wills. "I see you're awake," said Bodie with a broad grin. 

"Both awake and in my right senses. Will you have the goodness to explain that I'm quite capable of remaining on my feet for a few hours, and that I have no need of further medicaments," demanded Doyle irritably. 

"It's not like you to be over-protective, Archie." 

"You're reet, and I've nae changed ma nature, nor lost ma wits. His fever broke but yesterday. Could ye point oot tae this young de'il that unless'n he plans tae spend the next few days quiet, like as not we'll be layin' him oot afore the month's end. I've tended him the once, it's nae an experience I'm eager to repeat." 

"And I tell you I'm - " Pulling the healing muscles in his side when he swung round the better to make his point, Doyle clutched at the chair back for support, white to his lips. 

"Ye see," said Archie with dour satisfaction. 

"Leave it with me," said Bodie, aware that the two men would argue interminably if unchecked. 

Giving him a keen look, Archie nodded. "Make certain he takes three measures from yon physic morning and night for the next four days," he commanded, waiting only for his master's nod before leaving the room. 

"I believe you should sit down," remarked Bodie into the silence. 

His head looking as if it was weighted, Doyle released his death grip on the chair. "I'm - " 

" - a stiff-rumped fool with more bottom than sense," Bodie told him without heat. "I would recommend that you sit before you fall down. Gordon is anxious to see for himself that you are recovering. Even he is unlikely to be convinced by your present appearance." 

Casting a speaking glance at his host Doyle sank onto the chair. "You think I am being nonsensical." 

"I know you are," smiled Bodie, extending a tumbler. 

"What's that?" Doyle viewed the glass with suspicion. 

"Archie's magic potion. Although if you are to survive a visit from Gordon it's my belief a more palatable stimulant should follow this." 

"He means well," defended Doyle. 

"A damning phrase if ever I heard one. Drink this, or I shall be forced to admit my failure to Archie." 

Acceding with poor grace, Doyle drank without further demur, although his nose wrinkled in silent protest at the taste. 

Bodie substituted a glass of Madeira. "I believe you will find this more to your liking. I shall fetch Gordon." 

"You?" 

"I am capable of performing a few simple tasks without supervision," Bodie assured him, receiving a wry grin before Doyle returned his attention to his wine. 

***   
The hours Doyle spent in the company of his host were some of the most enjoyable he had ever known. It was only in the quiet of the night, when sleep refused to come, that he began to appreciate the changes wrought in himself since he had left London to return home. The metamorphosis, begun with his first glimpse of freedom, had continued until he scarce recognised himself. Wandering around his room, one hand to his side, which throbbed with each step he took, Doyle gave a wry smile, conceding that perhaps there were less changes than he supposed. At Crenley he had taken pains to remain unobtrusive, here he could air his opinions and allow his personality free rein. But it was disconcerting to experience emotions he had tried to stifle whilst living as a stranger in his own home. 

While his discussions with his host reminded him of all that had been absent from his very different upbringing, at no time had he been made to feel awkward or apologetic about his inability to share what he had fast realised were the usual experiences and memories of men of his age and social standing. Equally, Bodie had not pressed him for explanations when he realised his guest could not enter into a full discussion of a current topic. 

Even with anxiety for his father's safety lurking in the shadows of his mind to engulf him in moments of solitude Doyle knew that while duty would return him to Crenley, Consuela would find she faced a very different adversary from the green boy she had manipulated so successfully in the past. He found it humiliating to recall his passive acceptance of the status quo over the years. What had he hoped to achieve by his silence? 

His face bleak, he paused by the window, knowing full well. A chance to prove myself in his father's eyes. A useless vanity which might already have cost him his life. 

Doyle knew his delay in speaking out had made his task of being believed now even harder. Difficulty notwithstanding, he was in no doubt that he would resolve the problem, unperturbed by his lack of inspiration as to how it would be achieved. Then he would be free. That he must one day inherit Crenley and fulfil his obligations to the estate and all those who depended on it for their livelihood was a prospect which filled him with dismay. Crenley meant nothing to him but unhappiness and a sense of being imprisoned. Before he was shackled again he intended to see the world: all of it. 

His eyes heavy with fatigue and the near-constant pain from his side, Doyle came to a halt by the bed, conceding that he would not object over much if he should encounter his host on his travels. 

*** 

Rising late, having slipped back into the habit of taking a bottle to his bedchamber, Bodie entered Doyle's room with due regard for the thumping headache he was nursing. His salutation died on his lips. Taking care to make no precipitate move which might distract Gordon, who held a razor poised at an untrustworthy angle across Doyle's throat, Bodie remained just inside the door, Gordon the last person he would have entrusted with the delicate task of shaving anyone. Averting his gaze, he mentally saluted Doyle's courage. 

When the soft sounds of scraping ended Bodie judged it safe to announce his presence. While noting the trace of blood on Doyle's jaw, he complimented Gordon on his performance with no trace of irony, aware that the damage could have been far worse. 

"Mister Doyle learnt - taught me," replied Gordon, his pride in his accomplishment obvious as he collected up the towels, bowl and jug, setting them on a tray. 

"Did he?" remarked Bodie weakly, wondering if the other man had a death wish. 

Alive to the subtle nuances bypassing Gordon, Doyle gave his host a quelling frown. "I did, and have had cause to be grateful for the fact ever since. Thank you, Gordon." His hand moved surreptitiously to a sore place on his jaw line, wiping away a smear of blood. 

"One can only hope Archie won't feel too distressed at having been supplanted," remarked Bodie, a gleam in his eyes betraying the fact he had noticed Doyle's action. 

"Him?" sniffed Gordon with scorn. "Mister Doyle needs someone of his own. Someone permanent to look after him." 

"Yes, I suppose he does," conceded Bodie. "You've selected yourself for the task, I presume?" Gordon gave a bashful grin. 

Only then did Bodie appreciate that Gordon stood between Doyle and himself, as if guarding him. Smiling with genuine warmth, he clapped his servant's shoulder. "Rest easy. I've made my peace with your master. He'll come to no further harm at my hands, I promise you." 

"Of course I won't," said Doyle, rising from his chair. "Indeed, if I am any judge of the matter, I would say it is Mister Bodie who is in need of assistance. Some coffee, I think, Gordon." 

"So perceptive," murmured Bodie, seating himself. "And, as ever, correct, damn you." 

Reassured by the smile which accompanied that, Gordon nodded, picked up the tray and headed for the door. "Coffee for two, sir?" 

"For two," confirmed Bodie. "And strong." His eyes on the trail of soapy water Gordon left in his wake, he forbore to comment on it, or the fact Doyle's several nicks were still bleeding. But he gained a measure of satisfaction from silently extending a handkerchief, which his companion chose to ignore. "I should like, if you have no objections, to dispense with formality. I prefer to be called Bodie," he said abruptly. 

"Just Bodie?" queried Doyle, a glint of mischief in his eyes. 

"Just Bodie. What is so amusing about that?" he added with resignation. 

"Very little, save that it seems in character. Is your name so dreadful?" 

"Adolphus," offered Bodie lazily. 

Doyle's eyes narrowed. "Not that, I think. Algernon? Balthazar? Crispin?" 

Mindful that he had the entire alphabet at his disposal, Bodie gave in. "William," he said shortly, trying not to dwell on the one man whom he had given liberty to use the name. 

The smile faded from Doyle's eyes as he recognised his host's withdrawal, his inner speculations well-hidden on this occasion. "Bodie it shall be then." Pausing as he heard a muffled clatter outside, he pulled a comical face and rose to open the door, taking the tray from Gordon with a smile of thanks. 

"It is no wonder you've made a conquest," Bodie remarked when they were alone again. "You are no servant." 

"No," agreed Doyle placidly. "Just as you are neither a groom nor a cook, yet I hear you were seen saddling your own mount this morning, having first raided the kitchen. Shocking." 

"Pour me some coffee," pleaded Bodie, conceding defeat with a gesture of his hand. "I was serious. Gordon worships you." 

"How uncomfortable. His regard will fade as his confidence builds. He has been starved of kind attention, that is all. But he appears to have settled in well with the Grimsbys. They have patience with him." Doyle directed a pointed look at his host. 

"I am trying," Bodie protested. 

"And succeeding admirably, even with a thick head." 

"Don't puff me up with too much praise," Bodie begged. 

"I shall fight the inclination to the full," Doyle promised, removing the frogged crimson dressing gown Bodie had provided from his own wardrobe to reveal himself to be dressed in a shirt and pair of breeches, both of which were several sizes too large for him. 

Shaking his head at the sorry sight, Bodie said, "I have arranged for the tailor to come over from Stapleforth this afternoon to take your measurements. It's time you were kitted out in more appropriate garb." 

"But I cannot possibly afford - " 

"Your garments were ruined through my actions. It is therefore my duty to replace them," announced Bodie, his manner indicating that the topic was closed. 

His head cocked to one side, Doyle considered that claim. "If I remember matters aright I was naked when rescued. I fail to see how you can hold yourself responsible for the fact - unless you are about to confess that you were in league with the footpads. Perhaps you were amongst them. One was a surly brute as I recall." 

"Too kind," murmured Bodie appreciatively. "However, despite your attempts to divert me from the subject, the matter is settled." 

"Not by me it isn't," said Doyle with decision. "It cannot be right for you to - "

"Must you argue over every detail, or do you intend to wander around naked?" snapped Bodie in exasperation. 

"I find it strange you should seek to put me in the wrong. Almost as if you are reluctant to be discovered in some act of generosity," mused Doyle. 

He was leaning with his shoulder propped against the edge of the mantelshelf, his right hand tucked in a pocket, one bent leg accentuating the line of his flank and hips narrow as a boy's. But there was nothing boyish about the deliciously hinted bulk of his genitals or the grin he offered while waiting for Bodie's retort. 

Unable to think, Bodie studied the carpet beneath his feet. "You delight in making much of nothing," he dismissed. "I wondered if you would care to try a game of chess? You may recall we discussed the matter of my teaching you the game yesterday. Well?" he added with a trace of belligerence. 

"Very, thank you," replied Doyle demurely, enjoying the answering glint of amusement in his host's eyes. 

*** 

"You look fagged to death," said Bodie with rough concern as he entered Doyle's room, having eased Gordon from the chamber only after a number of pointed comments regarding Doyle's need for quiet. 

"He means well," defended Doyle, resting his head against the chair back with an unconscious sigh of relief. Even when it was silent Gordon's solicitude made demands of him; thanks to his bolstered confidence Gordon was rarely silent these days. 

"You will find yourself saddled with him for life if you do not take care." Making the warning in jest, Bodie wondered if that might not be the best solution for both parties. Doyle's patience with Gordon had already borne fruit. In turn, Gordon's manner made it obvious that Doyle had found himself a faithful servant for life - if he felt able to contemplate the trail of minor accidents which would inevitably follow in Gordon's wake. 

"You don't suppose he expects to accompany me on my departure? Oh, Lord," said Doyle in consternation when Bodie nodded. 

"Is the notion so intolerable? I mention the possibility only because there can be no doubt that Gordon holds you in high regard. He has good cause. You have achieved the minor miracle of calming him to the degree where he can make himself comprehensible, although I fear his understanding will never be other than poor. Nor can I pretend he is particularly deft. That said, he is willing; having won his love and loyalty you will never lose them. Do not imagine I am seeking to evade my responsibilities by foisting him on your household," Bodie added hastily, "but Gordon himself assumes he has entered your service. I should be grateful - for his sake - if you would give the notion serious consideration." 

Doyle heard him out with a heavy heart. His impecunious state was not a matter he wished to broadcast, but with his pockets to let it would be impossible for him to maintain so much as one room. In many respects the servants at Crenley were better placed than he, at least they received remuneration for their labours. While food and clothing had always been provided for him, their quantity sufficient for his needs, his only source of income had been the gratuities from guests who had taken him for a stable-boy, or the occasional largess when Theo had been home. It had been easy to convince himself that he would make his own way in life; reflection had made Doyle appreciate that he was singularly ill-equipped to earn his livelihood as anything but a stable-lad. 

"Well?" prompted Bodie gently, having waited some minutes for a reply. 

Doyle gave him a blank stare. 

"Is the notion of being saddled with Gordon so appalling?" 

"No. That is - " It was a humiliating prospect to have to admit the truth of his situation to a man whose upbringing had obviously been very different from his own. Knowing he had no alternative, Doyle took a deep breath, avoided Bodie's eyes and said in a rush, "I fear I cannot take him into my service. I lack the - My resources do not permit me to engage a retainer." 

His expression intent, it was with difficulty that Bodie stopped himself from pursuing the matter, his mind working furiously. Everyone experienced the odd reverse at the tables, but to be so destitute that he couldn't maintain a man of Gordon's meagre expectations was grim indeed. Noting his companion's poorly concealed embarrassment he did not doubt Doyle's veracity, regretting only that he had inadvertently placed Doyle in the humiliating position of having to declare his impecunious state. 

"Then there is no more to be said on the subject," he announced easily. "I trust matters will improve for you. Gordon shall remain in the care of the Grimsbys. I believe Molly is glad to have a lad in need of looking after about the place again. I will ensure he is well cared for. My father held Gordon in some affection, having found him wandering the heath one day. I was still in short coats," Bodie added, reminiscing only to give Doyle the opportunity to regain his composure and unconscious of the change in his manner when he spoke of his sire, whom he held in high regard. 

"Gordon can have been little older than you." 

"We are of an age, as far as anyone can tell. Attempts were made to trace his parents but no one in the area claimed him. Tinkers had been camping close by. As Gordon's understanding has always been poor my father was of the opinion that he was abandoned by them of intent. 'Twas fortunate it was my father who came upon him, for he would not hear of Gordon going on the Parish. But then he was always so. Lord, he had a bark on him when he chose. He, too, held strong views on the responsibility landowners owe to those in their care," Bodie added. 

While he flushed slightly, Doyle did not look away. "I regretted that remark the moment I uttered it." 

"I did not intend to remind you of it," Bodie said gently. 

"Perhaps not, but I still wish to tender my sincere apologies. I had no - " 

"Let it be, Ray. "We have both said things we regret. But while I wasn't best pleased, it was a timely reminder. Since quitting the Army I've allowed matters to slide to a disgraceful degree. The estate has come to a pretty pass in consequence. I take no pride in the fact. I've spent these last few days visiting my tenants." Bodie gave a weighty sigh. 

"Are matters so bad?"

"Bad enough. I wish I'd taken a greater interest in estate management when I was a lad, but the military life beckoned and m'father didn't press me. How could any of us foresee he would take a toss from old Sheba and - " His expression sombre, Bodie shrugged. "It's too late to repine now. But I've seen and heard enough to realise I must find myself a good agent." 

Venturing to ask more pertinent questions when Bodie did not mistake his interest for vulgar curiosity, Doyle nodded. "With an estate of this size a good man is essential. You might wish to consider taking on a younger man; one prepared to look ahead. There have been a number of important developments over recent years with, I believe, further advances to follow, which an older man may be reluctant to try. Crop rotation for one. Have your recent investigations helped you to decide what should be tackled first?" 

Eagerness on his face, Bodie slid up from where he had been slouched on the base of his spine. "The topic would not bore you?" 

"Far from it," Doyle assured him. 

They talked until three in the morning.


	5. Chapter 5

FIVE 

_The power of doing any thing with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance._

 

Having learnt from Archie that Bodie was dining with the Squire, Doyle resigned himself to a tedious evening listening to the wind howling outside and the thump and rattle as snow was hurled against the leaded panes. The room, however, was warm and well-lit with books and a chessboard set out for his use. 

Beginning to feel as if the walls were closing in on him Doyle could not settle, his thoughts meandering but returning inexorably to the subject of his host. Having accustomed himself to an existence where he must guard every word, Bodie's company was a delight. Admitting that he would welcome an opportunity to pursue their acquaintance to an imprudent degree, Doyle stared into the fire, trying to ignore the insistent throb of his rapidly healing body. 

When it came, he greeted the light tap on his door with relief, grateful for any diversion from his thoughts. Expecting to see Gordon or Archie, he glanced from Bodie, who was clad in a gorgeous deep blue dressing gown over pantaloons and an open-necked shirt, to the clock and back again: it was a quarter to one in the morning. 

"I heard sounds of movement and thought you might welcome company if you could not sleep," said Bodie, a hint of diffidence in his manner when he became aware of the lateness of the hour. "Forgive me, I had not appreciated the length of my ride home. It is snowing again." 

"So I heard," said Doyle, grimacing as a billow of smoke gusted down the chimney, the fire spitting as a little soot landed in its heart. 

"Damn, I should have had the chimneys swept. Has it been very bad?" 

"Not at all. And I should welcome your company. If you are not too fatigued." 

"By a four mile ride? You look blue-devilled," Bodie added frankly. "What's amiss?" 

"Nothing," growled Doyle. 

Bodie raised an eyebrow but forbore to contradict him. 

Doyle gave a sigh of defeat. "Oh, it is just that between them Archie and Gordon ensure I venture no further than the top of the stairs. How can they expect a man to sleep when he is so caged?" he demanded, continuing his relentless pacing around the room.

Mindful of his companion's invalid status Bodie made no comment, inflammatory or otherwise. His boredom was a thing of the past, his deepening acquaintance with Doyle had revised his opinion of his guest. While still considering him to be infinitely bedworthy, he was more and more intrigued by the man himself. Half stable lad, half - what? From their exchanges it was obvious that Doyle was accustomed to living on an estate far larger than his own more modest inheritance, which made it all the more puzzling that Doyle did not possess a feather to fly with. More knowledgeable by far regarding the concerns of farmers and tenants, not to mention agricultural advances Bodie had never heard of, Doyle betrayed little knowledge of the world outside that setting for all his book learning. That was another puzzle, for Doyle had made no mention of tutors beyond a reference to an old nurse; there had been no reminiscences to match Bodie's own of the governess who had been more accustomed to dealing with his five sisters, the youngest of whom was seven years his senior, or of Eton. 

Devil take it, Ray knew his history since he was in short coats while revealing virtually nothing but the fact he was innocent of many of the social graces. Bodie gave a wry grin. He had never really mastered those himself. 

He was looking forward to introducing Doyle to London, knowing he would be setting a hawk amongst the complacent pigeons of polite society. That was not, of course, his only ambition regarding Doyle, but he had taken some pains to give no hint of his sensual plans until he was certain of his welcome. For an impatient man Bodie could muster a surprising degree of patience when the stakes were high enough; they had been increasing since the night he had seen Doyle's naked figure sprawled in the mud. Drawn to him by lust, Bodie had come to like what he knew of the quick-witted stranger he had rescued. Entertaining no real doubts regarding his ability to seduce Ray Doyle into his bed, anticipation sang through Bodie's veins, aided by a generous intake of the Squire's excellent brandy. Giving his scowling companion a singularly sweet smile, he made himself comfortable in the chair opposite that which Doyle now occupied. 

"Blue-devilled or bored?" he asked, not without sympathy. 

"The latter. To distraction," growled Doyle. His legs stretched out in front of him, his narrow feet were bare, his expression one of brooding discontent as he gazed into the middle distance, ignoring the glass of wine at his side. 

"Perhaps I can entertain you," suggested Bodie lazily, his appreciative gaze roaming over his companion. 

His attention attracted by a new note in his host's voice, Doyle refocused and found he had to resist the urge to fidget under that heavy-lidded regard. Heat prickling his skin, becoming increasingly aware of his own body under Bodie's surveillance and disconcerted by his response to it, he sought refuge in his wine. Realising that Bodie's hands were empty, he raised his glass. 

"May I offer you some? 'Tis excellent, as I'm sure you are aware." 

"Perhaps later." 

Seeking to conceal the surge of his errant flesh Bodie rose to tend to the fire, grateful for the distraction of the heat on his hand and face as he crouched down to rearrange the logs, whose undersides glowed hotly, sparks flying upwards as the wood was turned. By the time he returned to his seat he had recovered his equanimity to the degree where he noticed the lines of anxiety bracketing Doyle's mouth rather than the seductive curve of his lips. 

"You are troubled by Ned's continued absence, I perceive." 

"It's been so long!" cried Doyle, his frustration at having to wait and worry beyond disguising now. 

"Six days," said Bodie with understanding. 

"It seems longer," said Doyle colourlessly. 

"I imagine it does. But you won't hasten events by fretting yourself to death. You knew you could not hope to receive any news for four days at the least. Given the heavy falls of snow since Ned left, allied with the usual appalling state of the roads, I fear that his journey may have been severely delayed. You intimated that he had some distance to travel." Bodie wished that Doyle would see fit to trust him with the secret which was causing him so much anxiety. His meagre intake of nourishment was a cause for concern in the kitchen - or so Gordon claimed - and it was obvious he was not sleeping. 

"I know," Doyle acknowledged. He gave a weighty sigh before looking up, a wry twist to his mouth. "Forgive me. While I am concerned there is no excuse for making you suffer. It is just - I am afraid Ned may arrive too late." 

Knowing enough of Doyle to be certain that any reassuring platitude would be tossed back in his face, Bodie remained silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "You are your father's son," he said at last. 

"Meaning?" asked Doyle with a quick frown. 

"From our short acquaintance I am prepared to wager you are not a man easily bested. Is your sire so different in that respect?" 

"My f-father?" 

"It is his welfare which concerns you, is it not?" 

Unwilling to lie, Doyle gave a reluctant nod. "Yes, but as to..." He fell silent for some moments before adding, "The truth is, I am not well enough acquainted with my sire to be able to judge our similarities. That said, there have been occasions during these last two weeks when I have wondered what I know of my own nature." 

"You are not a fool, why should you suppose he is?" returned Bodie. 

"In normal circumstances I would judge my father to be more than capable of guarding himself. However, there are some contingencies which... A gentleman may find himself at risk from a previously trusted source." 

Beginning to appreciate that no schoolroom melodrama lay behind Doyle's concern, Bodie's expression was intent. "I wish you would permit me to help you," he said frankly. 

"I can think of no one I would rather trust. But it is not a matter for anyone outside the family. God knows it is not one I thought could exist within mine. Forgive me, I have already said too much." 

"There is no other member of your family whom you can call upon for assistance?" Bodie's mind was wholly on the subject of their conversation now. "My apologies, I did not appreciate the gravity of the situation. I'll not press you for information you would rather not offer, but if you require assistance do not hesitate to call on me. Even when foxed you may rely upon my discretion." 

"I never doubted it. You are very generous but I hope you will understand when I say that I trust it will not come to that. As for my immediate family, my brother fell at Quatre Bras." 

The name of the battle caught Bodie unprepared, unleashing a flood of disjointed memories which bludgeoned his emotions. There had been little glory, only the thunder of cannon, blood and the screams of wounded men and horses. Then had come the close work with lance and sword. He could no longer remember his lover's face in life, only his ruined body. He had been only one of many. No, there had been little glory. 

Having seen Bodie flinch, his expression becoming distant, Doyle realised that his reference to Quatre Bras must have hit a nerve. He had been too engrossed with his own concerns to consider that Bodie, whom he knew to be an ex-military man, might have fought there and seen friends dear to him fall in battle. His own anxiety receding from the forefront of his consciousness, Doyle knew only that he wanted to erase that lost expression in his host's eyes. 

"I always doubted that war could be the glorious enterprise so beloved by the poets," he remarked quietly. "My apologies for having inadvertently revived unhappy memories." 

Refocusing, Bodie found Doyle at his side, holding out a glass of wine to him. 

"Take it," Doyle urged. 

Doing as he was bid, Bodie was slammed back into the present with a shocking immediacy when he took in the picture Doyle made. His sense of propriety offended by Doyle's lack of nightwear, Archie had found Doyle a garment which, from its voluminous cut, must have been intended for a far larger man. Made semi-translucent by the light of the fire Doyle was standing in front of, the enveloping white linen revealed as much as it concealed, offering tantalising shadowy glimpses of the warm flesh it housed. Dizzy with lust, Bodie could not look away from the flame-lit figure, the austerity of the gown negated by the hinted outlines of Doyle's body and the sensuality of his face. 

The cool press of the glass in his hand drew him from his heady speculations. Feeling brash as a scrubby schoolboy, he sought refuge in the mundane. "I was under the impression you considered I should reduce my intake of wine," he snapped, acutely conscious both of his body's leap of desire and his self-betrayal after Doyle's casual reference had re-opened old wounds. With much to learn of his companion, he was determined to spurn any mawkish expressions of sympathy out of hand. 

"To a judicious level," replied Doyle evenly. 

"To be decided by yourself, no doubt?" 

"You lost many friends at Quatre Bras." 

"Too many," acknowledged Bodie, bleakly aware that his thoughts were far from his fallen comrades and too much on the man in front of him. He wasn't some lust-smitten youth to be so overthrown, he thought angrily. Gripping the delicate stem of the glass, he drained the contents in two swallows, scowling as he tried to command his errant senses. 

"And one friend in particular," recognised Doyle with a certainty it did not occur to him to question.

"And one friend in particular," agreed Bodie, a warning edge to his voice. "What concern is it of yours, pray?" 

"I wish to help, if it is within my power." 

"It isn't." Bodie's raking gaze was one of dismissal. 

While Doyle's mouth tightened a little he said nothing, merely refilling Bodie's glass. 

"You wouldn't understand," added Bodie thickly, draining the contents. "How could you?" 

"I understand what it means to lose someone dear to me." 

"Really?" drawled Bodie. "It was not a brother or a friend that I lost." His mouth compressed when he saw comprehension dawn on Doyle's face. "I see you begin to understand. Do you intend to broadcast my vice to the world?" 

"Is it a vice?" 

Trying to understand his companion's mood, Bodie frowned. "That is what the church and laws of this land would tell you. My life is in your hands." But he saw no revulsion or censure on his companion's thoughtful face. Then Doyle smiled as though some perplexing puzzle had been solved. 

"The law is often unjust. Each man should search his own conscience rather than rely upon the precepts of others." From Doyle's matter of fact tone they might have been discussing the weather rather than an offence which could see them hung. 

"You're a radical!" exclaimed Bodie. 

"No, merely someone who prefers to make his own decisions. This friend of yours - " 

" - is dead and no concern of yours." In a goaded tone Bodie added, "Do you find it strange that I should still mourn his loss?" 

"You can answer that question better than I," replied Doyle mildly, taking a mouthful of wine and noting with academic interest that his hand was less than steady. The room suddenly seemed stifling. 

"He meant... everything." Angry, defiant and aching with lust, Bodie's stare was one of open challenge. "Does that disgust you?" 

"Why should it?" returned Doyle, every sense attuned to the man sprawled in the chair, excitement and a heady sense of power licking through him. 

"You can answer that question better than I," retorted Bodie, savagely turning Doyle's words back on him, in no mood to be mocked. Pushing himself to his feet in one smoothly powerful movement, he was inches from Doyle's warmth and only too conscious of the delights housed within that austere nightgown. 

"Yes," agreed Doyle. Aware of his accelerated heartbeat, he made no attempt to escape as Bodie grasped his shoulders, hard fingers tightening over his flesh, warmth to his warmth. 

"Damn it," snarled Bodie, sorely tried, his senses swimming, "I don't think you do." 

Studying the angry face so close to his own Doyle finally acknowledged the emotion on Bodie's face: desire - for himself. It neither shocked nor repulsed him, his principal emotion, beneath his anticipation, one of impatience. From the moment of their first meeting there had been an awareness between them, an invisible thread linking them, one to the other. And he was weary of his tiresome virginity, of a mind to lose it to a bedmate of his own choosing. Untroubled by the convention which dictated and the law which insisted it would be more properly lost tumbling a serving wench, he gave a slow smile. "I understand that you want me." 

Bodie's fingers tightened their clasp. "Really?" he said with hauteur. 

"Am I mistaken?" murmured Doyle, settling one hand unerringly over its target to offer an encouraging squeeze. But cupping the urgency straining at the front of Bodie's pantaloons and feeling his involuntary thrust of response, Doyle knew a moment of doubt. It vanished when, making a soft sound deep in his throat, Bodie sought the mouth which promised him so much. 

Urgent with lust, he had no thought for anything but his own needs, commanding with a savage impatience, "Damn you, open your mouth!" 

Having already exceeded the limits of his experience with a partner Doyle obeyed. Initiative surrendered to the other man's expertise, coherence fled under the heady probe of Bodie's tongue and the knowing hands which roamed his body. Aware of little but his clamouring senses, Doyle opened his eyes to find himself supine on the bed with Bodie on top of him. 

Impatient with the knotted laces which hindered the course of his progress, Bodie tore the front of the nightgown open, hungry for the sensation of naked flesh and a strength which would equal his own. 

"Wait," mumbled Doyle, freeing his mouth only to give a gasp of pleasure as an experienced hand curved around his aching flesh. Thrusting up into the friction it offered, he made a sound of frustration as he was released, Bodie's cock grinding into his belly as Bodie's tongue fucked his willing mouth. Everywhere Doyle's hands roamed they found impeding cloth. 

"I said wait, damn it!" he exclaimed, when the necessity of breathing caused their mouths to part. His face averted, his hands were braced against Bodie's chest. Gaining no more response on this occasion than the last, Doyle grasped Bodie's wrist, tightening his grip until discomfort caused Bodie to raise his head. 

The haze of lust clearing from his eyes, he gave Doyle a look of impatience. "What?" 

"I wish to speak with you." 

"Now?" Bodie's voice shook with frustrated disbelief. 

"Now," confirmed Doyle. Giving his companion no further opportunity to protest, he sat up to view Bodie with a severe eye, his inner turmoil well hidden. "While I am as eager for this coupling as you, I am not prepared to lose my virginity to some fumbling boor who cannot be bothered to remove his boots. I suggest - " 

"Virginity!" His ardour diminished, Bodie sank back onto his heels, his expression less than delighted, his blood-proud flesh on the retreat. 

"Everyone," pointed out Doyle tartly, chagrined that he should have admitted as much - and to Bodie of all people, "has to start with someone." 

"Not with me they don't," announced Bodie with decision. "I've no mind to break in a green lad who has..." His protest trailed away as his gaze roamed over the naked, shadow-lit figure, remembering that swollen mouth beneath his own and the fervent response he had been met with after Doyle's initial hesitancy. There were, he reminded himself, exceptions to every rule. 

Watching the arrogant certainty fade from Bodie's face, Doyle stretched slowly, the movement designed to flaunt his sex. "No?" he queried, making no attempt to mask his confidence. 

"No," said Bodie, but with little conviction. 

Doyle slipped a bare foot between Bodie's parted thighs, his toes caressing the bulky warmth at his groin. "Surely you won't condemn me to seek my own hand for relief," he murmured, tracing up the lazy curve of his own half-engorged penis with his forefinger. Encouraged by the attention, it stirred to greet his touch. 

Bodie gave an audible swallow. 

"Are you sure you will not reconsider?" asked Doyle, an introverted look to him as he began to tease himself back to full erection. 

"I was planning to seduce you," blurted out Bodie, taken aback by this role reversal. Damn it, which of them was the innocent? he thought with aggrieved confusion. 

"Ah..." Doyle paused, as if considering that remark. "You may do so tonight." 

"And tomorrow?" asked Bodie, unable to look away from Doyle's wanton sprawl, his own body responding as if it were subject to the attentions of those callused fingers. Doyle's skill made it obvious he was not a total innocent with regard to the sensual arts. 

"T-tomorrow," stuttered Doyle, stilling his hand lest he spill himself prematurely, "I shall endeavour to prove I have profited from your instruction." 

"You mean you wish - ?" Disconcerted, Bodie decided it would be wiser not to inquire as to Doyle's intent. "Very well," he said, sounding less than enthusiastic despite the eagerness of his body. 

His breathing back under control during the sensory respite, Doyle gave a brisk nod. "It is agreed then. The idea that I wish to reciprocate does not please you?" His disappointment was plain. 

Bodie's doubts melted faster than snow in June. "It pleases me. But I find it difficult to concentrate on the future when the present is so enticing." 

His gaze on the hand which had drifted up his thigh to cradle his testicles, pulling on them gently, Doyle exhaled shakily. "Green I may be, but I know enough to realise that if we wish to make further progress you will need to unfasten your garments. I would prefer you to remove them altogether." He reached purposefully for the side buttons on Bodie's pantaloons. 

With no intention of surrendering the initiative Bodie gave him a quelling look, having the uneasy suspicion that once lost it would be well-nigh impossible to regain the upper hand. Leaving the bed, he began to disrobe but he was forced to ask for Doyle's assistance with his Hessians. The aid, whilst willing given, did little for Bodie's equanimity, the sight of Doyle's delicious clenched rump while he tugged at a recalcitrant boot leaving Bodie unsteady with lust. A trail of garments in his wake, he returned to the bed, faltering when he realised that Doyle was subjecting him to a minute and unabashed scrutiny. Having forgotten the joy of being met on terms of equality, Bodie thought he could learn to enjoy it again, with the right partner. 

"You find me pleasing?" He was surprised at the harshness of his voice. 

"Perhaps I should reserve judgment until I have more information to hand," mused Doyle. 

For the green lad Bodie had called him his assurance was monumental and a challenge it was impossible to resist. Striving to ignore the responsive twitch of his body, Bodie experienced a belated twinge of concern regarding the extent of his companion's knowledge of carnal practices. "You are still eager for this coupling?" 

Doyle's attention on the heady attractions of the body so close to his own, Bodie was forced to repeat the question. 

With some reluctance Doyle turned his gaze to Bodie's face. "Oh, yes," he said simply. 

"As you are inexperienced - " Noting the ominous tightening of his companion's mouth, Bodie smoothly changed tack, seeking to avoid any overt reference to experience or its lack. "There are many ways to achieve mutual relief and pleasure," he said, struggling to sound instructive. 

"I believe I am familiar with the theory of a number of them," acknowledged Doyle with hard-won gravity, rightly suspecting his earnest companion would not appreciate his well-meaning efforts being met with levity. 

"But - " Bodie gestured to his penis, which had risen in answer to nothing more than Doyle's sultry-eyed appraisal. 

"I had noticed it," Doyle assured him. "'Tis little different from my own, when all's said and done. A little thicker perhaps," he added consideringly, his head to one side. 

Bodie gave him a look of hauteur. "I find that difficult to credit." He cast a meaning look at the relaxed curve of Doyle's penis while resisting the urge to lavish his attentions on it. 

"Why don't we put it to the test?" 

Pique forgotten, Bodie gave a crack of laughter. "A sound notion. If only you didn't share my untimely sense of humour." 

"Will it prove to be a bar to our enjoyment do you think?" The lazy confidence with which the question was voiced made it rhetorical. 

"Perhaps we should find out." All business now, Bodie stripped back the bedcovers before lighting another branch of candles. 

"Why bother with those?" 

"Do you intend to question my every action?" asked Bodie without heat, making himself comfortable against the pillows. 

"Only if you appear to be straying from the mark." 

Sexual heat ceding to humour, this one of the most bizarre conversations he had ever shared, Bodie surrendered to laughter, slinging an arm around his companion's shoulders. "I'm glad to see you are not troubled by any feelings of reticence," he gasped finally. "Are you always this frank?" 

"Never," admitted Doyle. "But then this madcap enterprise is not one I had considered, until very recently. Must we waste what remains of the night in speech?" Flat-palmed, his hand travelled over the shoulder it had been clasping, pausing to investigate Bodie's left nipple, intrigued by its pinker tone than his own. Leaving the hardened nub of flesh, he explored the vaulting rib cage and muscular stomach before taking Bodie in his hand, applying on the other man the caresses hitherto reserved for himself. 

Bodie gave a strangled gasp. "Ah! Ray, unless you wish this enterprise over before it is begun I suggest you stop - " 

Doyle viewed his companion's agonised expression with concern. "You do not find the sensation pleasurable?" 

Bodie breathed a silent prayer for patience. "It's pleasurable - to the point where the proceedings are likely to be over faster than you anticipate if you continue. I trust you will experience the same measure of enjoyment - if you will keep quiet long enough for us to find out." 

Doyle's grin of comprehension failed to mask the smug satisfaction which lay beneath it. 

"Someone," said Bodie pleasantly, entertaining his first doubt that he might prove unequal to the task he had set himself, "should have drowned you at birth." 

Untroubled, Doyle sank onto the mattress, drawing his unresisting companion down to him. "If you were attempting to seduce me with words, you have an uphill task ahead of you." 

"Perhaps if you were to concentrate." 

"I hoped you would leave me with no alternative." Doyle's doubts regarding Bodie's ability to make good the possibility were mirrored on his face. 

Lust overtaking laughter, Bodie swooped on him, locking them in a joyous tangle of flesh as they rolled and twisted for supremacy. The sensation of the fervent body surging up against him broke Bodie's control. Thrusting strongly, he concentrated on relieving the tight-drawn ache in his own body, using his advantage of weight to obtain the friction he needed. 

A cut-off exclamation penetrated his self-absorbed haze; his eyes opening, he glimpsed Doyle's twisted face and realised that the spasm which had caused it owed nothing to pleasure. 

"Damn it!" he hissed, having been gloriously close to the peak. "Damn it, damn it, damn it..." 

Rolling free of Doyle, one arm over his eyes, he gripped his aching flesh, granting it the few short pulling strokes which were all he needed, giving a soft, lush-sounding groan of relief as warmth splattered over his belly. Coherence slowly returning, he turned his head to see Doyle huddled in a curl of limbs. His face averted, one hand was pressed to the ugly, raw-looking wound in his side. 

"I hurt you," Bodie recognised with regret, kneeling over him. 

"Not you," Doyle managed. "Me. I twisted and ..." The mumbled stream of obscenities which followed when he tried to straighten demonstrated that he had learnt at least one thing from his time in the stables. 

"Allow me to - " 

"Don't! Damn it! I'm sorry," Doyle gasped, miserably aware that while his host would have cause to remember this night, it would be with disbelief rather than pleasure. 

"The cramps will ease if you turn, like so," said Bodie, helping Doyle onto his stomach and grimacing when he saw the tender scars on his back. "Be still. I will find something which should bring you ease," he murmured, brushing an unmarked portion of skin with a careful finger. 

"I'm a poor companion for you," muttered Doyle, his fingers easing their grip on the sheet.

There was a disconsolate droop to the full mouth which it was impossible to resist. Making no attempt to try, Bodie nuzzled the closed lips, satisfied when he coaxed a response from them. Ignoring Doyle's surprise, he took his time to please, thus increasing his own pleasure as Doyle displayed a natural aptitude for the art. 

"I wouldn't say poor," Bodie remarked some time later, "merely unpredictable - like much else about you. No, do not try and move yet. I will return in a trice." 

Doyle stubbornly propped himself up on one elbow. "You can have no need of further stimulation." His protest faded when Bodie just gave a wicked grin which begged to differ. "I doubt if I shall prove able to match your stamina tonight." 

Gratified to see the restoration of the other man's equilibrium, Bodie assumed a look of superiority. "Or perhaps on any other." 

"A challenge?" 

"Merely an invitation," said Bodie, his voice growing fainter as he left the room through the connecting door which led through the water closet to his bedchamber. 

"You are very forbearing," remarked Doyle upon the other man's return. 

"I shall not be if my patient refuses to co-operate. You were told to lie still. This is for you," Bodie added, handing Doyle a glass of wine. 

Lying on his stomach, his weight partially supported by one elbow, Doyle sipped at his drink while salve was stroked around the wound in his side. Bodie's touch was light at first, deepening only when he was certain it caused no pain. 

"That feels wonderful," Doyle admitted, his head drooping onto his forearms, the half-filled glass balanced precariously on the mattress. 

"I thought it might," acknowledged Bodie, turning his attention to the scarred back and regretting every blemish on the tawny skin. Each touch became a caress as he explored the contours of his companion's spine, lingering as he crested the small mound of Doyle's buttocks. 

Totally relaxed, Doyle gave an encouraging wriggle, his thighs parting, one knee crooking to relieve the pressure on his groin. 

"Shameless," murmured Bodie indulgently, nuzzling the heavily-downed hollow of Doyle's back before his hands traced the delectable curves of the small rise of Doyle's rump, drifting down the cleft. When his fingers slipped within that slick warmth Doyle spluttered into his wine. 

"I'll finish that," said Bodie decisively, relieving him of the tilting glass. 

"You've stopped," complained Doyle, his breathing accelerated. 

"I haven't even begun. Come," coaxed Bodie, settling himself on the bed and urging the other man to cover him, only to find Doyle investigating the wine-sweet depths of his mouth. "You know what I intend?" he continued when his mouth was his own again, his splayed hands settling possessively over Doyle's buttocks, his blunt-tipped fingers continuing to drift up and down the cleft. 

"No," said Doyle, his breath fanning Bodie's cheek, "but you will teach me." 

"Ah, Ray." Overcome by such trust, there was open tenderness on Bodie's face. Kissing that seductive mouth, he dipped his fingers in the pot of salve again. "Raise yourself a little more." 

"Why?" But Doyle was already moving, his mouth nuzzling Bodie's chin. 

"You'll soon find out." 

One hand curving around Doyle's blood-proud flesh, Bodie offered long, languorous strokes, enough to encourage but not to complete as the slickly anointed index finger of his free hand probed the furled muscle of Doyle's anus, easing inwards, his finger remaining still as it was tightly gripped, before sliding a little deeper. 

The unconsidered intimacy made Doyle tense, his eyes opening in unvoiced question. 

"Trust me," Bodie urged, licking the corner of Doyle's mouth in reassurance. 

The invading finger eased deeper into Doyle's body, then out again, in and out, sinking a little deeper each time. His head drooping, Doyle nodded his consent, but his unease was obvious as Bodie continued his careful penetration. When he withdrew, only to begin again, but this time with two fingers, Doyle concealed his face from view, finding the contact strange, his body protesting at being stretched. But the sure pulling strokes on his penis were familiar enough, as were the lips brushing his forehead, then his cheek and ear. 

"Don't fight me, Ray. Allow the sensations to wash over you. Go with them. Yesss..." 

Doyle had already begun to respond in an unconscious rhythm, in and down to greet the hand stimulating his penis, up and back against the fingers deep within him. Abruptly, mild internal discomfort was banished by a shiver of pleasure deep within him and Doyle's breath caught in his throat. 

"Ssh, I know. Only wait a moment more," crooned Bodie, who was testing his own controls to the limits, captured in the web of delight he was spinning for the other man. 

The next jolt of sensation was so intense Doyle thought he might die of it. Then Bodie stroked deep within him again, his fingers twisting. Driven by undreamt of stimulation, Doyle gave an inarticulate cry and thrust again and again, climaxing in ecstatic pulses which threatened to drain the very marrow from his bones. 

His own release triggered by Doyle's final convulsion, Bodie winced as Doyle slumped over him with a shuddering sigh. But one arm banding the still heaving back, he was in no hurry to free himself from the other man's weight. With a lazy satisfaction he licked the sweat from Doyle's temple, nudging him gently with his nose as he learnt Doyle's scent. 

"You see? Was it worth waiting for?" 

Stirring, Doyle rolled clear to stare at Bodie. His hair tangled, eyes brilliant with sexual heat, his mouth looked swollen. Bodie could have eaten him. 

"That was - " Doyle gestured limply "- astonishing." 

Bodie's slow smile spoke volumes. 

"I begrudge you none of your appalling complacency," Doyle added in more of his usual tone. Leaning up, remembering to take his weight on his elbows on this occasion, his mouth brushed Bodie's just parted lips. "Tomorrow will be better," he promised, but his eyes flickered in surprise when he discovered Bodie to be as limp as himself. 

"As you have gathered," said Bodie, his satisfied stretch delivering him into Doyle's hand again, "tonight was quite acceptable." 

Uninhibitedly exploring Bodie's sticky genitals, Doyle nodded and delicately tongued Bodie's testes, learning his taste and scent and finding both pleasing. "Tomorrow will be better. I want to do that for you. And more," he added with a ferocity only partially softened by the fact exhaustion was washing over him. 

"And so you shall," promised Bodie indulgently. "There will be time enough for it all. I look forward to our deepening acquaintance. I regret the manner in which it began," he added in a low tone. 

His face coming alive with affectionate mockery, Doyle ruffled Bodie's still orderly dark hair. "Mainly because of the disruptive consequences to your household, I'll wager. I have few illusions, you see." 

Sobering, Bodie stared into those smiling eyes and felt afraid, knowing that this man already meant more to him than was safe for his peace of mind. 

"What's amiss?" asked Doyle with quick concern. "I was but jesting." 

Bodie lightly slapped him on the rump, caressing the place afterwards. "I know. I was simply regretting the fact I was not the patient tutor I intended to be. My greed hastened matters too fast for your comfort." 

"I don't believe comfort is the word I would have selected," judged Doyle after a pause for thought. Most of his attention was elsewhere as he stroked the muscular planes of the other man's belly, contrasting the almost hairless creamy white of Bodie's skin with his own darker, soft-haired flesh and enjoying the difference. 

Reassured, Bodie gave a choke of appreciative laughter, well-satisfied with his night's work for all its lack of perfection. "Perhaps not," he agreed. "This was not, I fancy, the gentle exercise Archie had in mind for you." 

"Perhaps it was not but its benefit is undeniable," mumbled Doyle, who was making a valiant effort to stay awake. "Archie does not approve of me." 

"No? Perhaps you are an acquired taste. Tomorrow I shall test my theory." 

"As I recall, tomorrow it is my turn." 

Bodie was about to question the reason for the delay when he realised that only effort of will was keeping Doyle from sleep. "I look forward to being at your complete disposal." 

"Yes? It has an unlikely ring to it you must admit." Yawning openly this time, Doyle directed an apologetic glance at his companion. 

Bodie hugged him close. "That's a fine set-down," he teased. "You should not have overtaxed yourself." 

"No," agreed Doyle, snuggling into the pillows. 

Matter of factly cleansing him, Bodie wiped the excess salve from between Doyle's buttocks and retrieved the bedcovers. 

"Won't you stay for what remains of the night?" 

"With pleasure," said Bodie, snuffing out the candles. His expression softened when Doyle, his eyes closed, wriggled closer, threw an arm over his ribs and immediately fell asleep. Making a few minor adjustments to their position, Bodie closed his own eyes and drifted into a contented slumber. 

The sound of the servants stirring woke him. Reminded of the impropriety of being discovered in the bed of a male guest, Bodie reluctantly disentangled himself from his blissfully sleeping companion and, collecting up his crumpled garments and Doyle's torn nightshirt, slipped through the door to his own bed. It seemed cold and lonely in comparison to the one he had left.


	6. Chapter 6

SIX 

_A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a fortnight._

 

Sleeping deep, it was late when Doyle stirred to see an empty pillow beside him and find the sun in his face. Given the hour the former was not unexpected; the latter seemed a good omen. Becoming aware of sounds of movement he rolled onto his back, smiling when he saw Gordon pottering around the room. Propping himself up on one elbow Doyle smoothed a hand over the stubble on his chin, needing to reassure himself that he was not announcing his satisfaction with life to the world. 

"Good morning," he said huskily, giving a stretch of well-being and receiving only a slight twinge of complaint. 

"'Morning, sir. You slept well," Gordon noted with an approving beam as he served Doyle a cup of chocolate. 

His eyes sparkling with an inner amusement Doyle nodded. "What o'clock is it?" 

"Close on eleven, sir." 

"Then it is no wonder I feel so rested." Basking in the brilliance of the winter's sun, Doyle sipped the fragrant beverage but made no further attempt at conversation, revelling in contentment. 

Accustomed to Doyle's reluctance to face the first few minutes of the day Gordon continued to put the room to rights while studiously ignoring the garments delivered only a hour ago. He wanted his master to discover those for himself. Rising from where he had been crouched by the fire to ensure a good blaze, he saw that Doyle had already left the bed. 

"Your nightshirt, sir," he protested as Doyle padded off in the direction of the water closet installed in the small room which separated his chamber from Bodie's. His expression disapproving, Gordon repeated the question when Doyle re-emerged a few minutes later. 

"Oh, that." Doyle peered vaguely down at himself. 

"You should be wearing it," Gordon scolded, looking around for the garment in question. 

Hoping fervently that Bodie had disposed of it, Doyle took a deep breath. "Having contrived to tear it beyond hope of mending, I disposed of it," he said, hoping Gordon would not further tax his powers of invention by asking how and where. It was then that he saw the clothing Gordon had been shielding from view with his body. "At last! You approve, I trust?" he teased, gaining an enthusiastic nod. "So do I. God knows I'm weary of these four walls. Has the thaw begun?" he added, strolling over to the window and grinning when Gordon stepped into his path, a robe in his hands. 

"I should say. There be floodin' down in the village." 

His mind wholly set on escaping the tedium of his room, Doyle gave an absent nod. "Then I shall not be trapped indoors. Before I dress I should like to bathe." 

"You'll catch your death of cold," protested Gordon. "'Sides, you only had one the day afore yesterday." 

"And I plan to have another. The sensation is so pleasant." 

Gordon gave a resigned sigh. There were drawbacks, even to serving the likes of Mister Doyle. Wishing his master was a little less fastidious in his notions, he organised the fetching of the bath and delivery of the water, ignoring the scowls he received from servants taken from their normal duties to help, all of whom resented Gordon's elevation in status. 

Having securely fastened the crimson dressing gown lest he shock the maid and Gordon both, Doyle remained at the window, his eyes slitted in the sunlight, smiling to himself until Gordon called him to his bath. 

"You think me all kinds of a fool, I know," he said, closing his eyes as Gordon poured warm water over his hair to rinse away the last vestige of soap, "but it is such an agreeable sensation to be clean." 

Gordon gave a sniff of disbelief. 

Doyle tilted back his head to smile up at him. "Come, I know I have put you to a lot of inconvenience, but don't fall into a fit of the sullens. It is a glorious day. Forgive me for the trouble I've put you to and tell me all the gossip." 

Far from immune to that wheedling tone, or the smile which accompanied it, Gordon obliged him. He was still accustoming himself to his master's notions. But then those Quality born had some queer ways. His indulgent gaze sharpened when Doyle rose from the water and he noticed new marks on his master's flanks. 

"You've given yourself some nasty bruises, sir. That must have been quite a tumble you took," he said with concern. 

"Not so bad," murmured Doyle, his smile a private thing. Relieving Gordon of the towel, he began to dry himself briskly as the connecting door to the master suite opened. 

"I see you have finally stirred," remarked Bodie, fixing his gaze with dedication on Doyle's sleepy face lest he betray himself utterly. "You slept well?" 

"I spent an excellent night," replied Doyle, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Gordon, that will be all for now, thank you." 

"You've not shaved yet, nor dressed," Gordon pointed out, remaining where he was. 

"I had noticed. I intend to do both, rest assured, but I do not always require your assistance, excellent as it is. Take an hour or so to enjoy the sun. Relax." 

"Sun?" echoed Gordon, wondering if his master was touched in his upper works. The yard was ankle deep in slush and the wind biting; no one but a booby would go out of doors if they had the choice of remaining where it was warm and dry. 

Reading Gordon's thoughts with ease Doyle tried to straighten his twitching mouth. "Sun," he repeated firmly. "Better still, pay my respects to the Grimsbys and ask if it will be convenient for me to call on them this afternoon."

"You are not - " 

"You can't - " 

Bodie and Gordon voiced their protests in unison. 

Throwing his towel at the former, Doyle gave a mock scowl to the latter. "I am and I can. A short walk will not prostrate me." 

Gordon gave a sniff of disbelief but left without further argument beyond a few mumbled asides. 

"So you passed an excellent night, did you," remarked Bodie, only now daring to stroll over to the lure of the naked figure. 

"Can't you remember?" Doyle was all solicitude. 

The towel was tossed back at him. "Perfectly. Here, your back is still wet." 

"It doesn't matter," dismissed Doyle flatly, his smile fading into uncertainty as he found himself unable to judge Bodie's mood. Perhaps he regretted... 

"Indeed it does, for then I shall become as damp as you and how shall I explain my ruined linen to Archie? I had trouble enough explaining away your torn nightshirt," Bodie added ruefully. 

"Archie would never betray you, whatever your fault," said Doyle with unshakeable certainty. 

"I know that," said Bodie, to whom the thought had never occurred. "But..." 

"You would be embarrassed!" crowed Doyle with delight. 

"And what is so funny about that?" asked Bodie, trying to stand on his dignity. 

"Nothing, save that you seem so imperturbable." His skin glowing from the abrasive rub of the towel, Doyle tossed it over the rim of the bath and kissed his host. The touch was no more than a light brushing of lip to lip and the flick of his tongue until Bodie's mouth parted in welcome. By the time they drew apart they were both breathing hard, Doyle's naked body betraying the extent of his enjoyment. 

"You learn quickly," noted Bodie with approval. 

"I had an excellent tutor. But I suspect that tonight will be a more appropriate time to prove as much," added Doyle, moving to the warmth of the fire where he vigorously rubbed his wet hair. 

Conscious of a need to see his companion's expression Bodie crouched beside him and twitched the towel aside. "You have no regrets?" 

"Not about us," said Doyle without hesitation as he slid into his borrowed dressing gown. When Bodie complained, he added, "Do you usually lock yourself in your bedchamber in the middle of the day?" 

"On occasion." 

"Oh? Well, in that case - " Doyle's mouth quirked and he shrugged the robe off. 

"But only with a brandy bottle," Bodie admitted, hoisting the richly embroidered gown back up Doyle's shoulders and giving a sigh of regret. "They say patience is a virtue." 

"Which you obviously know so much about," mocked Doyle. "Would you ring for hot water so that I may shave?" 

"Better than that, I will shave you myself," Bodie said, having given the request to the servant who appeared at the door. 

"If I've spurned Gordon's services I am hardly likely to require yours," Doyle pointed out ungratefully.

"Are you saying you prefer Gordon to myself?" 

"That needs careful consideration," Doyle mused, slanting a wicked look in Bodie's direction just before his shaving water was brought in. 

Shaking his head, as if despairing of him, Bodie began to wonder what manner of bedmate he had found himself as he watched Doyle shave. Not that he was complaining. "You are incorrigible," he murmured, choosing a chair which offered him a view of Doyle's mirrored reflection. "Does the word discretion mean nothing to you?" 

Doyle set down the razor, an expression Bodie was not sure how to interpret on his face. "I'll not disgrace you in your own house," he promised woodenly before he quickly dressed, as if he suddenly felt himself to be at a disadvantage naked. 

Strong arms encircled his waist, drawing him back in a brief hug. "Imbecile! I entertain no doubts on that score," said Bodie in exasperation. "My only uncertainty is whether I shall prove able to keep pace with you." 

"We shall put it to the test tonight," said Doyle, accepting Bodie's aid to don the dark blue coat and trying not to preen too obviously, these clothes the finest he had ever worn. 

"Hammond has done himself proud," remarked Bodie, stepping back the better to survey his companion. "That waistcoat is a minor masterpiece. But then of course he has excellent material on which to work." His heavy-lidded gaze lingered over Doyle's muscular thighs and the genitals so subtly delineated by the clinging fabric of the cream breeches. It was with some reluctance that he forced himself to make a more orthodox survey, his expression changing to one of ludicrous dismay as his gaze travelled upwards. 

"Ray, you cannot imagine that is a suitably arranged cravat?" 

"What is wrong with it?" asked Doyle, peering at himself in the glass. 

Bodie tapped him on the shoulder. "Look." He gestured to the arrangement of linen at his own throat. 

"I am," said Doyle ruefully, sighing as he unfastened his own effort. 

"Sit down and place yourself in my hands," commanded Bodie, who disliked seeing anything badly done. 

"I thought you did not have the time?" said Doyle, his mouth prim, his eyes glinting with a mixture of mischief and desire. 

Unable to resist him, Bodie gave him a swift, hard kiss. "Behave," he admonished as he found fresh linen and went to work. "And don't do that," he added in a harassed tone when a hand crept upwards to investigate the front of his breeches. 

His fingers primly twined, his eyes cast down, Doyle was the image of propriety. 

"There, 'tis done. And you," Bodie added, taking Doyle's fingers in his own, "are quite shameless. You may cease to look so dejected. Come and admire my handiwork. Then, if you are still intent on exhausting yourself, you may come and eat with me. I'm devilish hungry." 

"So am I," Doyle assured him, his comprehensive survey leaving the manner of his appetite in no doubt. 

Laughing, Bodie swept him from the room. 

***

 

By early afternoon the thaw was advanced, the stable yard a glutinous field of mud. Having watched Bodie ride off to supervise the rescue of sheep threatened by the rising waters, Doyle stared across the yard long after the horse and rider who accompanied the wagon-load of men had disappeared from view. 

Lacking any distraction, anxiety swept over him. The day was so mild after the recent snowstorms and biting cold that the thaw must be widespread. If Ned Smith did not return by tomorrow night there could be few convincing explanations for the delay. Doyle's fertile imagination began to consider each one. 

More fatigued than he cared to admit by his perambulations, he knew he must occupy himself in some fashion, leisure a new concept to him. Doyle began to understand why some of the gentry complained about the tedium of their days as he found himself unable to settle to anything. The Grimsbys, he remembered with relief, turning back in the direction of the stables. 

His pace slowing as the ground became more liquid, he recognised a couple of the stable lads. Both nodded a salute and went about their work with no sign of recognition. Pulling a wry face Doyle mentally congratulated the tailor Bodie had found for him, aware that he must present a very different picture from that the lads had last seen. It was hardly surprising; his injuries were healing, he was warm, fed, clothed, and...happy, he realised, only now recognising the unfamiliar emotion. 

The hours he and Bodie had spent together the previous night had made him aware of a source of delight too long absent from his life; he was determined to make up for lost time. What the future might hold he had no wish to consider, preferring to live for the present. Before uncertainty could mar his contentment a familiar bellow made him turn. 

"Master Ray! Well, I declare, I hardly recognised 'ee. You look in fine fettle, lad. Better than when I saw 'ee last at any rate. 'Tis good to see 'ee," Saul Grimsby added, his shrewd gaze examining Doyle with the same thoroughness he gave to every four-legged newcomer to his stables. 

Realising as much, Doyle gave a wry grin. "You'll be putting me through my paces next." 

"Aye, you've recovered," Grimsby said with satisfaction. "Gordon said ye wished to see Molly an' me. You'll be aware that it's not fittin' you should call on the likes of us." 

"Nonsense," snapped Doyle, shivering in the thin breeze which pierced the greatcoat which both Gordon and Bodie had insisted he wear. "I wish to thank Mrs Grimsby for the excellent care she has taken of Gordon. She has worked wonders. To the point where I believe he is truly happy. He is certainly content. He talks about the pair of you all the time. I also wished to thank you for all you did for me." 

"I can't think why considerin' the way I used 'ee," said Grimsby bluntly. "You stubborn young fool. If you'd told me what ailed 'ee from the first it - " 

While Doyle made no attempt to interrupt him, his chin lifted a little. The gesture was enough to bring the older man to a standstill. 

"I beg your pardon, sir." 

"Saul, what in Heaven's name are you talking about? You damn fool," sighed Doyle, one hand on the older man's arm. "You are quite correct, of course. I was about to snap your head off. But I am weary of being cosseted and lectured by everyone I meet. You cannot conceive how it feels to be out and about again. I know enough not to overtax my strength," he added hastily. 

"Oh, aye? Well, that's as may be, you've given me leave so I'll say my piece. You've done enough gallivanting for one day. You're white as a winding sheet." 

"Fashionably pale," corrected Doyle, grinning as Grimsby snorted his derision. "I shall rest once I have seen the mare you and I tended. Starlight," he prompted artfully. 

The stableman successfully sidetracked, they spent a pleasant hour amongst the horses until Grimsby caught sight of his companion's drawn face. By that time Doyle was glad to be taken in hand, his legs displaying a disconcerting tendency to shake. 

Having tendered his thanks to Molly Grimsby, after failing to eat more than a quarter of the food pressed upon him, Doyle took his leave of the couple, laughing away Saul's offer to accompany him up to the Hall. Crossing the yard, a familiar figure caught Doyle's eye in the dusk. 

Recognising Doyle with equal ease, Joseph gave a sullen scowl and stared resentfully at the cobbles, blaming Doyle for the fact he had lost his position as coachman and had been relegated to the stables. Worse even than that, he had been ordered to wed Rosie. Not that he precisely objected, she was a tasty morsel and willing to please, but he had intended to find himself a wife with better prospects than a swelling belly. It did not occur to him that he could have been dismissed out of hand, or that Doyle could have no way of knowing that it was Joseph who had got Rose, the scullery maid, with child. 

"Good afternoon." 

"Sir?" Stopping perforce, Joseph's resentment was obvious and he would not meet Doyle's gaze. 

"I hear I am to congratulate you upon your forthcoming nuptials," continued Doyle, trying to overcome his dislike of the man. Gaining no more acknowledgement than a grunt, he continued on his way with a nod, unaware of the vindictive gaze which followed him. 

***

 

Dining with his host for the first time that evening Doyle had little memory of the course of their conversation, his interest in rescued sheep and leaking roofs minimal at the moment. Mechanically eating and drinking everything placed before him, his desire-darkened eyes continued to catalogue the powerfully-built man lounging at his ease at the head of the table. That Bodie's attention was equally distracted occurred to him only slowly, the presence of the servants forbidding all but mundane topics of conversation. 

Removing to the library when the covers had been cleared, Bodie glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf and subdued a groan. While they kept country hours at the Hall, even he could not convincingly retire at this hour. When they were finally alone he said as much to Doyle. 

"Perhaps you cannot, but I can," Doyle pointed out cheerfully. "I have spent a most fatiguing day."

Swallowing his disappointment Bodie cast him a sharp glance. "You look fagged to death," he acknowledged heavily. "Go to bed, Ray. There will be other nights." 

Slamming shut the book of essays he had been making a pretence of reading, Doyle gave him an exasperated glare. "Dolt! I meant only that with me out of the way you would be free to take a bottle to your chamber - Archie will think nothing of being dismissed then - and join me." 

"Oh." Wryly conceding Doyle's genius, Bodie nodded before adding, "What makes you suppose the lure of the bottle won't prove the stronger attraction?" 

Strolling over to where Bodie stood Doyle paused when they were close enough for them to share body warmth. "Nothing," he said simply. Making no attempt to touch Bodie, he held his companion's gaze for close on half a minute, allowing the sultry silence to speak for him before he continued on his way out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him. 

Bodie tugged at his suddenly tight cravat, a rueful smile quirking his mouth as he prepared to wait twenty minutes or so before acting upon Doyle's suggestion. He was tempted to call the other man's bluff; he might have done so if the cost to himself would not have been so high. 

The unwanted bottle of brandy left in his room, the door of which he remembered to lock, Bodie approached the connecting door behind which lay Doyle's chamber, a faint knock announcing him before he entered. 

"I did not hope to see you for another hour at least!" exclaimed Doyle, rising from the chessboard he had been attempting to concentrate on. 

"After your performance earlier this evening? I gave Archie the night off." 

"And I told Gordon I would sleep until midday. I believe my exercise yesterday was most beneficial," Doyle added, wondering why Bodie had chosen to come to him fully dressed. 

Bodie studied the candle lit room, noting the blazing fire, the wine and glasses, a familiar pot of salve and a large towel. His pupils slightly dilated, his gaze moved to Doyle, wondering if he was naked beneath the gorgeous robe which was loosely tied at the waist. 

"Is your door fastened?" he asked. 

"Of course. Allow me to help you to disrobe." Doyle proved himself to be a deft, if unconventional, valet. 

Bodie ensured that Doyle was naked first, the crimson silk puddled at their feet, Doyle gloriously bare, lit by fire and candlelight. 

"Wait, just a moment," Bodie murmured, stepping back a pace before his hands travelled from Doyle's wide, thin-fleshed shoulders, over the high rib-cage and flat stomach to clasp the narrow hips, his fingertips resting on the rise of the small buttocks. "You are... too thin," he said after a short pause, shaken by the effect Doyle could have on both his senses and his heart. Bending, he kissed the lazy curve of Doyle's penis, snuffling his scent. 

"Your boots," Doyle reminded him prosaically.

"You have an aversion to them?" 

"Only to the fact it is impossible to remove your pantaloons whilst you are wearing them. Allow me." 

Seating himself, Bodie extended one leg, which Doyle straddled, the perfect fit of Bodie's Hessians making their removal a difficult matter. Tonight the glimpse of genitals and Doyle's sweetly presented buttocks clenching and relaxing only inches away were more than Bodie could resist. 

"Ray..." Half a groan, half a request, Bodie rubbed his face in the hollow of Doyle's spine before his mouth travelled downwards, tasting the sweet, firm flesh. His flicking tongue was a warm wet probe which made Doyle quiver as it pressed against his anus. He stumbled and would have fallen but for Bodie's encircling arm. 

"I want you," Bodie said hoarsely, his mouth against Doyle's ear before he turned him, needing to see his companion's expression. "Do you understand what it is that I propose?" 

"You want to fuck me, yes?" Trying to unfasten the side buttons of Bodie's pantaloons, Doyle gave a sigh of frustration when he failed. 

"God, yesss..." 

Sibilant with need, his mouth fierce and urgent as it met Doyle's, Bodie found himself welcomed with a matching fervour. Their bodies locked together, they began to move in a clumsy, urgent rhythm. Bodie climaxed with his face buried in the junction of Doyle's neck and shoulder, his hands clasping Doyle's naked buttocks, his warmth seeping through the fine wool of his pantaloons to mingle with Doyle's as both men slid to the floor. 

"Too fast," muttered Doyle in frustration. 

"It achieved its purpose," mumbled Bodie languidly as he leant against the support of a heavy armchair, Doyle propped against him. "The loving we propose is best begun slowly and with care, not desperate urgency. There will be some discomfort - pain - at first." He leant forward to check Doyle's expression. 

Looking debauched and only half awake, Doyle smiled. "And later?" 

"Ah, later..." Bodie nuzzled the damp nape of Doyle's neck, sucking his flesh. 

"You have done it before - with a man?" Tugging Bodie's second boot free the question sounded a little ragged, Doyle's face hidden from view. 

Half-rising so he could remove his remaining garments, Bodie came to a decision. "Many times," he said frankly. "I enjoy a woman's company and body, but I have learnt that I gain the greatest joy in the company of men. I have taken and been taken and gloried in both acts. But... he fell at Quatre Bras. And I mourned him for he was very dear to me. But not in the way... I do not want you to leave the Hall - me." Realising what he had admitted, he drew in a sharp breath. 

Turning, the light of the fire behind him, Doyle's face was in the shadows as he rested a hand on Bodie's upraised knee. "Is it so for you, too?" There was wonderment in his voice. 

Bodie hugged him and the boot Doyle was still holding close. "How could it be otherwise? You infuriated me too much for me to be able to ignore you. As the days passed..." Shrugging, he plucked the boot from Doyle's grasp, tossing it out of the way. "Who knows why or how it happens. What is amiss?" he added gently, seeing Doyle's expression change. 

""I ... I must leave shortly. I have a duty to my father." 

"Then I will accompany you. And if you will not allow me to share your burden in full I will wait for you in the nearest town or village. When your duty is done we will leave together." There was a note of finality in the seemingly submissive statement. 

Staring into Bodie's determined eyes, the trace of anxiety eased from Doyle's face. "For once I will not argue with you. I know I should protest, but I cannot. I do not want to part from you. But I will not live off you," he added with spirit. "I must make my own way in the world." 

"There is a post ready and waiting for you," Bodie pointed out. 

"Eh?" Doyle frowned. 

"Here, of course." 

"I will not be your pensioner." 

Bodie gave a theatrical sigh and slung his arm around the stubbornly braced shoulders. "From our lengthy talks into the night it is obvious your knowledge of the land and estate management far exceeds my own. You know I am in sore need of an agent, a steward. Call the post what you will, I need assistance if I am to bring the estate round. I can think of no one I would rather have working at my side." 

"Truly?" demanded Doyle, holding himself aloof. 

"You do not love the land? You have not already offered several sound notions regarding improvements - which are currently being put into practice? Are your wits gone wandering? I would have offered you the post even if we were not lovers. Say yes," Bodie coaxed. 

Searching his companion's face for what seemed like a very long time to the waiting man, Doyle finally relaxed. "Yes," he said simply. 

Smiling, Bodie made himself comfortable on the floor, the crimson robe beneath his head. 

"You have nothing else to say?" enquired Doyle, kneeling over him. 

Bodie lazily dragged him down to lie next to him. "A great deal. But it can wait." 

"Yes, I suppose it can. Why are you looking so pleased with yourself?" Doyle added suspiciously. 

"Am I? It is not surprising. I wanted you the moment I saw you. But I did not expect to find friendship too." 

Doyle was silent for a moment. Having recognised the unguarded truth when he heard it, he wanted to be equally honest. "That is another experience I have never enjoyed. I may not prove such an apt pupil in that art." 

Bodie tugged gently at a fat brown curl, watching it spring back into place, before he said, "You'll do me." 

Sprawled on their silken mattress, soaking up the warmth of the fire, they continued to exchange desultory conversation, smiles and lazy caresses before dozing, tangled together. When Bodie awoke, it was to find the candles burnt low and Doyle reaching for the salve. 

"Did I disturb you?" asked Doyle with no audible regret. 

"Did you intend to?"

"Not yet. Some more wine?" 

Nodding, Bodie sat up the better to watch his lover's movements, saluting Doyle with the glass he was handed. "I believe you will find a guinea in one of my pockets," he remarked. 

Doyle eyed him patiently. "I do not require a gratuity." 

"That's fortunate. Just fetch it, would you?" 

His curiosity getting the better of him, Doyle tossed a coin to Bodie, who caught it one-handed. 

"The best of three calls," he said, yet to decide if he would rather win or lose the toss, anticipation licking through him. 

"To decide what?" 

"Who kneels tonight." 

It took a moment for the sense of what Bodie had said to sink in. The effect on Doyle was instant and intensely gratifying to the other man. 

"But I thought you - ?" Doyle gestured vaguely to himself. 

"You do not want me?" mocked Bodie affectionately, watching Doyle's expression betray him, his hunger beyond concealment. "Forget this," he added, tossing the coin away. "I shall kneel for you." He did not waste valuable breath asking if Doyle had the inclination, that much was evident. 

Sprawled on the heavy silk of the dressing-gown, Bodie was whimpering by the time Doyle had satisfied himself that he had learnt the secrets of his lover's body, instinct and Bodie's responses his guide. 

"Now, Ray, for the love of God, or I shall spill myself," Bodie gasped, almost sobbing with frustration as Doyle's fingers withdrew from his body and his cock was abandoned. 

This too new a pleasure for his control to be very great Doyle smoothed Bodie's lean flanks, licked the last knob of his spine and sheathed himself in one long thrust, giving a shout of surprise at the sensations which engulfed him. After that it was impossible to retain any semblance of control, Doyle swept away on a tide of undreamt of sensation when the pressure around his cock tightened as Bodie moved. It was over too soon, Doyle coming with a soundless gasp which left him hunched over Bodie's back struggling to breathe. It was some moments before he recovered enough to appreciate that his lover had needed more than he had been able to give. 

"Too fast. I hurt you." His voice wobbling, clumsy as he withdrew from Bodie's body, he was still shaking with the intensity of the sensations which had drained him. 

"For a moment, no more. The first time is never... Next time will be better," Bodie comforted him, for the first time thinking of a lover's needs before his own. 

"Better?" croaked Doyle with disbelief. "It was already..." His eyes widened. "Show me," he demanded fiercely, virtually thrusting the pot of salve at Bodie as he turned to present himself, his shoulders to the floor, thighs widespread as he raised his hips. 

His endurance at its limit, it was beyond Bodie to resist. Despite his generous application of salve and his attempt to take it slowly, his need took him on too fast and too hard. But before he was spent he was rewarded by Doyle's moans of pleasure echoing in the thunder of his own pulse.

The bed remained unused that night. Indeed, if it had not been for Gordon tripping up the stairs and dropping the tray he carried, they would have remained asleep in front of the ashes of the fire in a knot of entwined limbs, silk and spilt wine long past the hour of discretion. 

Moving with a trace of discomfort, which Gordon put down to his master's fall but which brought a reminiscent gleam to Bodie's eyes once his initial concern had been reassured, Doyle made a hearty breakfast. 

"Our country air seems to have restored your appetite," remarked Bodie smugly. "Thank you, Knowsley. That will be all." 

"I can think of nothing else to account for it," agreed Doyle sedately, giving a small sigh of relief when the door closed behind the last of the servants. 

"Nothing?" quizzed Bodie, extending his hand. 

Linking their fingers, Doyle smiled. 

The first part of the morning they spent discussing the work to be carried out around the estate, Doyle allowing himself to be persuaded to do nothing more strenuous than strolling around the still waterlogged grounds. He took little persuading, an unconsidered soreness, quite apart from discomfort from his healing wound, enough to make the notion of riding unappealing. 

"My poor Ray," murmured Bodie with contrition. "It was madness for me to - " 

"Have done with your fretting," Doyle advised him tartly. "I'm well enough and have no regrets, save for my lack of expertise. Perhaps practice makes perfect," he added, stepping out of the way as a groom led Bodie's grey stallion across the cobbles. 

Bodie's small grimace when his backside met the saddle caused Doyle to give an appreciative grin, knowing he was safe from retribution until they were alone. 

"I shall have my revenge tonight," Bodie promised him pleasantly. "I shall be no more than a couple of hours. Did you tell Saul of our plans?" 

"What, all of them?" enquired Doyle with large-eyed innocence. 

Administering a light flick of his riding crop, Bodie was still laughing when he set off at a canter, aware that the faster he went, the faster he could return.


	7. Chapter 7

SEVEN   
_I have this comfort immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it has done no harm to any one but myself._

 

Learning from Ned Smith that the impressive entourage entering the yard belonged to a Mister Doyle senior, Bodie flung the reins at a groom and set off at a run, intending to tell Doyle himself. In the event he arrived just as Knowsley was announcing their guest. Doyle's startled expression as he spun round betrayed none of the delight Bodie had expected to witness. 

"Good God! You here, sir!" 

"You have lost none of your propensity for stating the obvious, I see," returned his sire, making no attempt to take his son's outstretched hand. "Unlike you I do not choose to deal through servants." 

Dismissing an interested Knowsley with a quick nod, Bodie entered the room but made no attempt to draw attention to himself, curious to learn what kind of a relationship existed between the two men. 

Having placed the volume he had been reading to one side, Doyle's face was blank of expression after that set-down. "My letter told you of my fears. I am relieved to see they were groundless." 

"Are you indeed?" The older man's icy gaze swept around the comfortable, book-lined room, alighting on Bodie with hauteur. "You have the advantage of me, sir." 

"Bodie, I have the honour to present my father, Peter Doyle. Sir, may I present your host, Mister William Bodie," said Doyle with quiet self-possession. 

Bodie strolled forward with every appearance of ease. His civil greeting was met with an impatient courtesy, the older man obviously wishing him in Jericho. Sensing something amiss between father and son Bodie was reluctant to abandon Doyle to the dubious mercy of his sire. His polite enquiry regarding Peter Doyle's journey received a direct snub, the older man's comprehensive survey making Bodie aware of his travel-stained attire. His manner urbane, he said only, "No doubt you and Ray have much you wish to discuss." 

"We have. I trust we shall not inconvenience you for long before we take our leave. I must thank you for the hospitality you have accorded my son. Raymond has always displayed a propensity for falling on his feet." 

Able to concentrate on nothing but the fact Doyle would be leaving, Bodie remained silent for a moment. "Indeed? Then I regret to inform you that it is a talent which deserted him of late." 

Bodie took up the conversational burden because he could see Doyle needed time in which to regain his equanimity; he looked as if he found it difficult to credit the evidence of his own eyes. There was no other emotion discernible on his face, his father's contempt something Doyle was obviously accustomed to experiencing. 

"You appear to be labouring under some misapprehension regarding the severity of Ray's wounds," Bodie added. "He left his sickbed only yesterday. Whilst he has recovered to a degree, he is in no case to withstand a journey of any length." 

"No? He was, I understand, sickly as a child." 

There was a damning lack of interest in the older man's voice and Bodie swallowed the impulsive retort which sprang to his lips, suspecting an intemperate reaction was what Peter Doyle expected. "Then you must be delighted at the good health he enjoys as an adult," he said blandly. "I take it you did not think to explain your brush with death?" he added to Doyle. 

"It was not relevant," dismissed Doyle colourlessly. 

"It's relevant to the degree you damn nearly died," retorted Bodie tartly, before explaining to the older man, "Ray was set upon by footpads and left for dead." 

"Indeed? Am I to understand that you are conversant with the matter which has brought me here?" 

The insulting tone brought an angry glint to Bodie's eyes. 

"No, sir, he is not," snapped Doyle, an edge to his own voice now. "Although I can imagine no one I would rather trust. Bodie, if you would permit it, I believe there are several matters best discussed with my father in private." 

Reassured by the fact Doyle was showing every sign of being able to defend himself, Bodie gave way with grace. "I will ensure you are not disturbed. I trust you will reconsider your plans and accept the hospitality of the Hall for one night at least, sir." 

Peter Doyle made no response to that courtesy except to say, "I see no signs of incapacity in Raymond." 

"Thanks to the excellent care I have received," said Doyle quickly, aware that Bodie was on the point of launching into the attack on his behalf. His gaze moving beyond his father, he gave an infinitesimal shake of his head and knew he had been understood when Bodie nodded, made his excuses and left the room. 

"A not ill-bred young man," judged Peter Doyle, seating himself. His gaze settled on his son and heir. "I suppose I should be grateful you retained a semblance of good sense and did not publicise our affairs to the world. How dared you entrust such a delicate matter to the care of a stable-lad! Are you completely lacking in family feeling?" 

Doyle met the accusing gaze without flinching. "I deemed speed to be imperative. As I was unable to complete my journey, a letter was my only means of communicating with you. I assume you had cause to take my warning seriously?" 

"What makes you assume that?" 

"Why else would you come here? Unless, of course, it is to defend my stepmother's good name." 

"If that were the case you'd find yourself being dealt with very differently, I promise you." 

"She betrayed herself, then," said Doyle without surprise.

"That is no concern of yours." 

"Good God, sir! If you believe that what in Heaven's name prompted you to stir from Crenley?" 

"The fact that until your letter arrived I believed you dead," replied his father in a goaded tone. 

"I am gratified to see the notion did not leave you prostrate with grief." The expression in Doyle's eyes betrayed the pain his tone sought to deny. 

"You insolent young whelp! Do you imagine I take pride in my heir?" 

"You have made that belief an impossibility." 

Something in his son's tone made Peter Doyle amend whatever he had been about to say. "I may have been a trifle harsh," he allowed. "Consuela has retired from public life and will live in seclusion with a retinue of, er, servants." 

"There will be no scandal?" 

"I have expended a considerable amount of effort to ensure there will not. It is not for the curious to interest themselves in our affairs. Fortunately only John and James were present when the crisis occurred. Your warning was late by almost two weeks." 

"What precipitated the crisis?" asked Doyle, prepared to make an educated guess. 

"She went into some kind of a nervous spasm after a message was delivered to her." 

Remaining silent, Doyle recognised that his father's paramount emotion appeared to be that of irritation at having the even tenor of his life disrupted. 

"You do not seem very surprised," accused Peter Doyle. 

"I have experienced her volatile moods in the past," replied Doyle colourlessly. All at Crenley had suffered because of them at one time or another. Even allowing for wilful blindness it was difficult to imagine how his father could have remained ignorant of her violent rages. 

"John and James were as taken aback as I. How is it that you know more of their mama's character than they?" 

"Perhaps they see a different side of her." 

"In what respect, pray?" 

"As her sons they are the centre of her ambitions." 

"Are you suggesting they had any notion of what she proposed?" demanded Peter Doyle fiercely. 

Doyle met steel with steel. "No, sir, I am not. But you will recall that they both chose to reside in London." 

"It's natural enough for youngsters to wish to spread their wings. They're good enough boys. At least their activities have never brought notoriety down on the family, whatever wild oats they may have sown." 

Remembering the string of pregnancies in the area around Crenley, and the brothers' hurried departure until the dust should have settled, Doyle remained silent. Youth and a misguided sense of family duty had caused him to remain at Crenley, where his unsavoury reputation (assiduously fostered by his stepmother) had been enough to condemn him in the eyes of most of the area. The good opinion of a few of the servants had not been enough to save him. He had been fifteen. 

"That chit who drowned herself a few years past," said Peter Doyle abruptly. "Do you still claim the brat she carried wasn't yours?" 

Doyle's hand unconsciously rose to his broken cheekbone, the result of an ambush. His denials at the time had not been believed; it seemed unlikely that his father's opinion would have altered. "I said all that was relevant at the time. The facts have not changed," he said with a quiet dignity. 

"The evidence against you was - " 

" - flimsy in the extreme. Yet everyone, particularly my own family, was only too eager to believe it." In the contest of wills which followed it was Peter Doyle who looked away first. 

"That is over and done with. Tomalty and his two sons were sent to the Assizes for leading the attack on you." 

"And he died of gaol fever before he could be transported for defending his daughter's honour," completed Doyle. 

"He was damn lucky not to be hung!" 

"As you say, sir." Staring into the fire, the bones of Doyle's face seemed very prominent, his mismatched cheekbone more in evidence than usual. 

"Henderson investigated the circumstances of the affair thoroughly at the time - on my behalf," Peter Doyle reminded him, a snap in his voice. 

"I have often reflected how different the outcome might have been had you not selected him for the task. But as you say, the matter is done with." Doyle fought to subdue the anger building in him, wanting nothing more than that his father should leave, this conversation demonstrating, had he required further proof, that there was no place for him at Crenley. "How is it that you learnt of my stepmother's plans for yourself?" 

Peter Doyle accepted the pointed change of subject with something like relief, his son's haughty expression offering little encouragement to his line of questioning. 

"Her spasm was a cause for concern until it became apparent that she was merely enraged. In arranging your murder it had not occurred to her that her hired cutthroats would abscond with the jewels they had stolen. When they failed to meet Howser at Ponsbury as arranged she returned to Crenley with the news." 

"It is then, I take it, that Consuela betrayed her plans for your future?" 

"If you mean did she come at me like some damned bedlamite, yes, she did. If it hadn't been for John and James... Then she turned on them. Howser had to sedate her." 

Doyle's expression hardened. "She has almost as much to answer for as her mistress. I trust she, too, is confined?" 

"Credit me with some sense. Of course. Steps have also been taken to curtail Henderson's activities. It seems that he and Howser..." Peter Doyle grimaced, adding when his son said nothing to help him, "Trying to ascertain what had become of you was more difficult. My men lost your trail at _The Boar_. Short of calling in the Runners and risking the very scandal I had been at such pains to avoid... In the event, you survived." 

The fact seemed a cause for irritation rather than joy. Doyle looked away, shivering despite the warmth of the fire, as it occurred to him that he had never really known the other man. 

"Why in God's name didn't you place the facts before me years ago?" burst out Peter Doyle. 

More detached now, Doyle gave him an incurious glance. "Until Theo's demise I had no notion that Consuela's plans included trying to obtain Crenley for her sons." 

"But the estate is entailed." 

"So I told her. She seemed unable to grasp the concept. But I doubt if that was her only thought. Had she achieved her objective she would have found herself a widow with a sizeable jointure. She has always wanted to live in London." 

Peter Doyle ignored that observation. "Theo has been dead for two and a half years and still you said nothing. Why?" 

"Not for the motives you no doubt attribute to me," replied Doyle evenly. "I could offer no proof. Without proof I knew I could not hope to convince you." 

About to argue the point, innate if belated fairness made Peter Doyle nod abruptly. "That does not explain why you failed to make me aware of her animosity towards yourself." 

Doyle's eyes opened wide in surprise. "To what purpose? It was no secret. I presumed you were aware of it." 

"You were mistaken," retorted Peter Doyle, stung by the picture drawn of him. 

"As you say, sir." 

"You should have come to me," Peter Doyle insisted angrily. 

A bitter twist to his mouth, Doyle looked up. "You may recall that I did so, as a child. You did not believe me." 

Peter Doyle looked away from the graven image of his son's face. "I had forgotten that," he allowed gruffly. "But no sane man readily accepts that his spouse ill-treats his own flesh and blood. She seemed fond enough of Theo." 

"Quite so," murmured Doyle. While it was difficult to overcome the childish remnants of his hero-worship for the aloof, forbidding man he had met so rarely, he began to realise Peter Doyle's existence was devoted to a cold-blooded determination to ignore facts if they threatened his chosen lifestyle. It was a hollow pride which cared for the family name yet felt nothing for the individuals who made up that family. 

"You mentioned the fact that Consuela has retired from public life," Doyle said abruptly, afraid that his father's determination to protect the family name would go beyond imprisoning his wife. 

"Must I spell everything out for you? Naturally the matter has been hushed up, although a degree of gossip is unavoidable. But Consuela's nerves are known to be unsteady. Her decision to retire from public life because of ill-health should occasion little comment. I was a fool to remarry." 

"Why did you?" 

His hard stare having no visible effect, Peter Doyle decided to answer that piece of impertinence. "Crenley needed a mistress and my children a mother. I realised my choice had been unwise within a month. While we presented a united front to the world, we maintained separate lives. Discretion and good breeding were all I required of her. She made a suitable mistress for Crenley and seemed to deal well enough with Theo and..." Honesty made him trail off into silence as he finally admitted that his spouse had taken against his youngest son from the first. 

"I trust she will continue to enjoy her customary good health whilst she is ‘in retirement’." 

"What the deuce - ? Don't be so dashed melodramatic," snapped Peter Doyle when he understood Doyle's inference. "My one concern throughout this sorry affair has been to avert a scandal, not to figure in one. Consuela will occupy the Dower House, whose secluded position makes it easy to guard. While she will never be permitted to leave the grounds, she may otherwise live out her life as she chooses. James and John concurred with the arrangements I made." 

"Naturally," replied Doyle dryly, aware of the generous allowance made to his stepbrothers over and above what they received from their own father's estate. "You are satisfied she will be well-guarded?" 

"Cared for," corrected his father testily. "I hardly need you to teach me my business. Do you take me for a fool?" 

Emotionally battered and with no illusions left to lose, Doyle shook his head. "Far from it." 

A hint of puzzlement creased Peter Doyle's brow. "You've changed. Why do you smile?" 

"I was merely wondering how you could know that. Our acquaintance has hardly been extensive." 

"And you would take me to task for the fact? You are impertinent, sir!" 

"Merely realistic. I regret the fact causes you distress," replied Doyle with little attempt at sincerity. 

"You blame me for the life you led?" demanded his father, placed on the defensive. 

It was the last spark needed to ignite the torch of Doyle's anger. "You claim you elected to remarry for the sake of your sons. As an interested party I can count our meetings on one hand. On each occasion you berated me for some new offence more preposterous than the last." 

"Perhaps I was misled with regard to some of your doings. But - You forget, I saw the carcasses of some of the animals." 

"And did they tell you I tortured them to death?" 

"You were found beside the dog, its blood on your hands." A trace of disgust touched Peter Doyle's face. 

"And you chose to believe Henderson?" 

"Is that all you have to say in your defence?" 

"I made my explanation ten years ago. I have no intention of inviting further insults." On the point of leaving the room, afraid of what his temper might otherwise cause him to do, Doyle halted at the sound of his father's voice. 

"If a man cannot trust one of his servants, whom can he trust? My health has not been of the best." 

"Then allow me to congratulate you upon its return. You seem in fine fettle now. Indeed, upon reflection, I do not recall the state of your health impeding your involvement in any of your chosen pursuits." 

"I was misled," insisted Peter Doyle, incensed. 

"For nigh on fifteen years? I lived much amongst the servants. At no time did I receive any intimation that you were not aware of what went on in your own household. Rather the opposite in fact." 

"Servants' gossip," remarked Peter Doyle, curling his lip. 

"Lacking the advantages of living in polite society," began Doyle mildly. 

"I need justify my behaviour to no man, least of all to you." When Doyle made no attempt to respond to that crushing snub but turned his attention to a poorly executed portrait of a woman dressed in the fashion of fifty years ago, his father drew an impatient breath, running his hand back through his thick grey hair in a gesture reminiscent of his son's. "Or perhaps to you most of all," he conceded heavily, a hint of perturbation evident in his eyes. 

"As the third son I did not expect to find myself saddled with responsibility for Crenley in my twenty-first year. Smallpox accounted for Lucius; Vincent accounted for himself, the drunken sot. I was left to take over the estate upon my father's demise six months later. Our family possesses an ancient name, with traditions to uphold. I do not find it easy to deal with the expectations of others, but I knew my duty and found myself a wife." 

Listening despite himself, Doyle slowly turned. 

"I was more fortunate than I deserved in my first marriage. I should not have remarried. And I see now that I should have mentioned the existence of you and Theodore to Consuela before we wed. But I did not dream... She held you in animosity from the first." 

"So I realised," said Doyle, gathering some response was expected of him. While he had regained control of his temper, he had yet to recover from the realisation that the man whose welfare had caused him so much anxiety and whose approval and affection he had yearned for did not exist. Even more disconcerting was the fact that his sire should now be offering this awkward recital. He had no wish to hear it. 

"I am aware that mistakes have been made for which you have paid the price. Since learning of Consuela's true feelings I realised how little I could be certain of where you were concerned and instigated enquiries into your life and conduct. I took no pleasure in questioning servants to establish the truth." 

"Quite so." Doyle had yet to mellow to the point of wishing to help his father out. 

"Damn it, boy, I'm trying to apologise," roared Peter Doyle. "I intended to do so when I arrived but you - No matter. While I doubt that your conduct has been flawless, I've received no indication that you have done anything to bring shame to the family name. In consequence I believe we shall rub along tolerably well. You'll return with me to Crenley and your proper station in life. It's high time you acquainted yourself with the responsibilities you'll face with regard to running the estate. Irving will guide you there. He's an able man, and has been in my employ these past twenty-nine years." 

"We have met," pointed out Doyle dryly. 

Peter Doyle had already moved on. "We'll have to see what can be done about getting you leg-shackled. I'm not without influence and at three and twenty it's time you were thinking of marriage. I'm glad we have that settled," he added, sitting back with obvious relief at having got an unpleasant task out of the way. 

"I have no intention of returning to Crenley, let alone of setting up my nursery. I have yet to see anything of the world outside the estate. Now matters have been resolved between us I shall to lead my own life." 

"You claim to have remained at Crenley for my sake?" It was a contingency which clearly had not occurred to the older man. 

"I was misled," said Doyle sardonically. "I knew little save that your health was a cause for concern. After the news of Theo's death you gave every appearance of being on your last legs. Of course, the ruse enabled you to avoid the calls of condolence which necessarily followed the announcement." 

Taken aback, it was a moment before Peter Doyle could speak. "Theo was my heir and I - " 

" - held him in affection? While our acquaintance is slight, I should prefer you to deal honestly with me. Theo's death was an inconvenience it was difficult for you to avoid." 

"You dare to speak so to me?" His voice silken with rage, one clenched fist upraised, Peter Doyle strode over to where his son stood. His chin lifting, Doyle made no attempt to escape or defend himself. 

Lashing out, Peter Doyle diverted his blow at the last moment, sweeping an ormolu clock from the mantelshelf before he wheeled away, too enraged to speak. 

The door of the library opened after the most perfunctory of knocks. "Sir?" questioned Knowsley deferentially, his sharp gaze missing little as he scanned the room. 

"There has been a small accident, no more," said Doyle calmly, but he was pale as he faced the butler's barely veiled curiosity. "Present my apologies to Mister Bodie. Beg him not to hold dining on our account. My father will be leaving shortly. That will be all." With obvious reluctance, Knowsley backed out of the doorway. 

"I don't know what came over me. This is a poor way to repay Mister Bodie's hospitality," murmured Peter Doyle, gently toeing a piece of the wreckage before abruptly looking up. "I beg your pardon, Raymond. It would seem you understand me too well for my own comfort." 

Beginning to believe he understood nothing and disconcerted by his father's obvious regret, Doyle made a gesture of dismissal. 

"So you would have us deal honestly with each other, would you," mused Peter Doyle. "Very well. I want you back at Crenley - but in your proper place, as my heir." 

"Only because the estate is entailed," remarked Doyle, his dispassionate statement of fact causing his sire to frown. 

"I have already explained - " 

"No, sir, you have not," interrupted Doyle incisively. "But I neither require nor wish to hear them. The past no longer interests me. I have wasted enough of my life and intend to make my own way in the world." 

"And what of your responsibilities?" 

"I believe I have always been aware of those. The topic is not open to debate. I shall not be returning to Crenley in the foreseeable future." 

"You'll find yourself deuce hard-pressed to survive without your allowance!" 

"As I have never received one, I am unlikely to notice the lack." Beyond pretending he was not in need of support Doyle sank onto a chair. 

"Nonsense! You have been on an allowance since your sixteenth - " Peter Doyle drew a sharp breath. "Henderson was entrusted with the arrangements, the allowance payable every quarter day." 

"Then the mystery is explained," shrugged Doyle, although it helped a little to realise that, whatever his opinion of his son, his father had made some provision for him. 

Frowning, Peter Doyle pinched the bridge of his nose. "How have you managed without funds?" 

"Where would I spend them? I earned the odd gratuity from your guests." 

"How?" 

"By tending to their livestock." 

"You're my son, damn it! How is it that you were mistaken for a stable-lad?" 

In no mood to make matters any easier for his sire Doyle matched him, stare for stare. 

Rising to pace around the room Peter Doyle spun back with an impatient gesture. "Will you stop that! Maria would always look at me so when she knew herself to be in the right of it. Your mother," he added gruffly, but the involuntary softening of his expression said more. 

"So I have been told." 

"You weren't expected to live above a month!" protested Peter Doyle, stung. "Do you blame me for turning against the puny brat who cost me my wife?" 

"Not at all, but I would have hoped you would have been able to forgive me my inadvertent offence in the years which have elapsed since then," returned Doyle, his expression sullen. 

His father gave an unexpected crack of laughter. "Oh, you're my son right enough. Lord, what a facer! I've never been quick to forgive a slight either." His amusement was replaced by regret. "I could wish that you wouldn't follow my example in all things." 

Doyle's hands parted in a gesture of dismissal. "Let it rest, sir. The past is best forgotten." 

"Was your life so hard?" 

Doyle did not reply immediately, having been reminded of more than he cared for of his childhood. But there was little point in blaming his father for his own nature. Shaking his head, he studied his booted feet. 

"It was that bad then." 

Taken aback by the regret in the quiet voice, Doyle's expression was one of wary resignation as he braced himself for the next onslaught. 

Recognising as much, Peter Doyle sighed. "I do not intend to haul you over the coals again. You were right to take me to task. I admit to living my life as I choose. With the exception of the period following Maria's death I have enjoyed it to the full, if not in the manner others believe I should. If duty had not demanded it I would never have married. I have small fondness for the young, even my own. By the time you were of a more interesting age the habit was ingrained and my mind set against you. I had not considered myself to be such a simpleton. My dealings with your brother were easier. He sought nothing of me beyond a few guineas and the freedom to go his own way. And he did not remind me of Maria. Unless I mistook matters he had even less interest in me than I in him. Do you understand?" 

"Let it rest, sir," Doyle repeated, but on this occasion there was a modicum of warmth in his voice. While he could not condone his father's reasoning, it eased his raw sense of inadequacy, which Consuela had taken such pains to foster. 

Still seeking a way past the barriers his son had erected, Peter Doyle eyed him thoughtfully. "If you've been penniless all your life you can have little notion of how your finances stand." 

"None." 

"Then you are in for a surprise, a pleasant one, I'll wager. Quite apart from your allowance, which I believe you'll find generous, as befitting the heir of Crenley, there are the revenues from your maternal grandmother's estate. You'll come into the inheritance when you are five and twenty. In total you should find yourself with around ten thousand a year." 

Doyle's jaw sagged upon hearing himself moved from penury to riches in one casual sentence. 

"I had a notion that would surprise you," remarked his father with a hint of satisfaction. "You can have seen little of the world." 

"Until recently, nothing." 

Reseating himself, Peter Doyle smiled. "I've no doubt you will make up for lost time. I shall contact Drummonds, my bankers, and set all to rights. In the meantime draw on them for anything you require. I presume you will make your way to London. The town house is at your disposal." He paused, a faint but unmistakable air of embarrassment about him. "You'll lack town bronze at first, but I have every confidence that you will soon find your feet. I'll put you up for _White's_ , of course - or _Brooks's_ , should you prefer it. Should you require advice on any particular do not hesitate to approach me. While I choose to remain at Crenley I manage to keep abreast of the affairs of polite society." 

Unable to foresee any eventuality which could cause him to take the horrendous step of seeking advice from his father, Doyle found the grace to murmur his thanks. His side throbbing in pace with his pulse, his emotions in turmoil, and fatigue threatening to overset every control, he closed his eyes for a moment. 

Watching his son's gaunt face lose what little colour it possessed, Peter Doyle rose abruptly to his feet. "You were injured, I know. I had not appreciated the severity of the attack until Mister Bodie mentioned it. Are you quite recovered?" 

"Fully." Doyle straightened his shoulders. 

While it was obviously far from the truth, Peter Doyle did not challenge him immediately, still feeling his way with his son. "How did it happen? You will appreciate that the reports I received are not to be relied upon." 

Pinned by that dissecting gaze Doyle told him an edited tale because it required less effort on his part than continuing to resist the older man's forceful personality. Adding only that the wound had become putrid, he braced himself for the lecture on his own foolishness he was certain would be forthcoming. 

"It is fortunate Mister Bodie's coach took that road." 

"Most fortunate," agreed Doyle without irony. 

"You appear to have received every consideration at his hands. The wound still troubles you, I perceive." 

"A little," conceded Doyle. 

"Show me." 

"What? Certainly not," snapped Doyle with hauteur. 

"I may have been lax regarding my parental responsibilities but I intend to learn from my mistakes. I wish to satisfy myself that you do not require the attentions of my physician." 

Unimpressed by that line of reasoning, Doyle glared at him. "I do not." 

"Arrogant, stiff-necked - No, do not fly up in the boughs, for you know it to be true. You are all the family that remains to me." 

Doyle knew enough family history to be aware of distant connections scattered the length and breadth of the country. "In the event of my demise, to whom will Crenley pass?" 

"Do not speak of it. A simpering popinjay with a clutch of eight young hopefuls. He writes me every year. The man's a fool, and he wed a tradesman's daughter! Crenley deserves better. I won't see you put it at risk over a piece of missish foolishness." 

Unsurprised to learn he was no more than a symbol of the continuity of the line, Doyle gave a resigned sigh and rose to his feet, unfastening his waistcoat before tugging his linen free to offer a brief glimpse of the livid scar down his side. 

"As you see, I heal fast," he said, preparing to neaten his clothing again. 

Cool fingers prevented him from doing so. "A moment more. You were fortunate that the knife was deflected by your ribs," remarked Peter Doyle, withdrawing the probing fingers which, for all their care, had made the younger man draw in his breath. "Whoever had the initial tending of you should be horsewhipped. They've made a complete mull of it. I've no doubt it gave you an uncomfortable time. You're too thin." 

Embarrassed, although he could not have said why, Doyle gave his sire a pointed look, the older man's spare frame positively gaunt beneath his elegant tailoring. 

"What is this?" With angry disbelief Peter Doyle pulled away Doyle's shirt to expose a portion of his son's scarred back, recognising both new and old signs of ill-usage. "You made no mention of this," he remarked, releasing the now crumpled linen. 

Humiliated, Doyle tidied himself with unsteady fingers. "To what purpose?" 

"Who dared misuse you so?" demanded his father fiercely, shaken out of his usual calm by the incontrovertible proof of how little protection his son had enjoyed in his own home. 

"Good God, do you imagine I kept a list?" 

"I..." Peter Doyle allowed the hand he had reached out to fall back to his side, watching with a trace of helplessness as his son reconstructed his emotional barriers around his bruised dignity. "I understand a little better why Crenley must be so repugnant to you. Would it surprise you to learn that you have a number of advocates amongst my staff. From Father Villas..." Doyle's eyes widened at the inclusion of the family priest, who with an iron fist in an iron glove had taught him his letters "...to Irvine and Ezekiel Downes. The latter was most vocal in your praise. But then he is better acquainted with you than I." 

"I learnt much from him," Doyle acknowledged colourlessly, wishing this interview over. 

"I do not doubt it. But while he is an excellent stableman his skills will not enable you to run Crenley. What can you know of estate management?" 

"More than you might suppose. Irvine tolerated my tagging behind him. In retrospect I can see that he dealt patiently with my many questions. Crenley also possesses an excellent library," Doyle added, pouring his father a glass of Madeira before taking one himself. 

"I never saw you there," exclaimed Peter Doyle.

"I took pains to ensure no one should," replied Doyle, desperate for some respite from the conflicting emotions which had been besieging him since his father's arrival. 

Every turn in the conversation reinforcing how little he had known of what went on in his own household, Peter Doyle set his glass down with a small click. "Theo must have seen something of the life you led. Why did he say nothing?" 

"He probably assumed, as I did, that you knew." 

"Are you suggesting he stood by and allowed a young boy to be ill-treated?" 

"Theo?" Doyle's smile was one of wry affection. "Of course not. He and I got along famously - when he remembered my existence. The difference in our ages was such that he could hardly be expected to evince much interest in my doings. I regret his death," he added with difficulty. 

Having learnt something about his second son in the last couple of hours, Peter Doyle recognised the emotion behind that flat-voiced statement now. "Everyone held Theo in affection. The news of his death hit you harder than I had supposed. My apologies. What did you make of your brother?" 

"I loved him," said Doyle, surprised into telling the truth. "But Theo was easy to love, for all his lack of wit." 

"Are you suggesting your brother was feeble-minded?" 

Unintimidated, Doyle took a sip of his wine. "I suggest nothing. Theo's understanding of any topic which required much thought was never better than poor. While he possessed a great deal of charm, if he ever placed anyone's wishes over his own I was never privileged to learn of it. But he was kind-hearted, well-intentioned and honest. He would have made an excellent master for Crenley, with a good agent behind him." 

That dispassionate and accurate assessment left Peter Doyle momentarily speechless. "I see you do not permit sentiment to blunt your judgement. You are, of course, correct, damn you." 

Blind to the amused approval in the face turned to him, Doyle studied his boots. "You need hardly add that he and I have - had," he corrected himself, still finding it difficult to believe that his beautiful, indolent brother could be dead, "nothing in common." 

"Only blood. For reasons I cannot fathom Theo was the image of my brother Lucius - and in more than looks. While you have your mother's eyes and colouring, I find I can recognise a disconcerting amount of myself in you. Like me you have a hasty tongue when roused; we both know too well how to use it. What other traits we share we shall no doubt discover. I have kept you talking for too long, you look fagged to death," Peter Doyle added gruffly, getting to his feet. "Our host probably despairs of ever having his library returned to him." 

Approaching his son, who rose quickly to his feet, he rested his hands on Doyle's shoulders. "I know you can have little cause to believe me but I should welcome the opportunity to deepen our acquaintance. When you've spread your wings a little, come visit me. Or give me leave to call upon you in London." 

That awkwardly-voiced suggestion the last thing he had expected to hear, Doyle glanced up and realised his father was serious. "If you wish it, of course, sir," he said politely. 

Nodding, Peter Doyle gave a wry half-smile. "I wish it. And not only for Crenley's sake," he added on a more familiar note of acidity. "I am content that the estate will be in capable hands. Now, I must away to make my apologies to Mister Bodie. What are your plans? Will you remain here for a spell? You and Mister Bodie seem on the most cordial of terms." 

It was a moment before Doyle replied. Now his interrogation was over he was slowly accustoming himself to the notion that he was free from the fetters of a life which had stifled him at every turn. 

"We are on the best of terms," he confirmed belatedly. "I believe I shall prolong my visit. The estate became run-down in recent years. As a military man Mister Bodie has little knowledge of the land. He has already asked for my assistance." 

"Excellent," murmured his father, content that his son's mistakes should be made on an estate other than his own. 

Watching the older man fidget in the ensuing silence, obviously having something he wished to say, Doyle began to appreciate that Peter Doyle had spoken the truth when he claimed to be inept in his dealings with others. And yet he tried in the only way he knew... 

On impulse Doyle extended his hand. "A safe journey home, sir. Unless... Won't you break your journey to Crenley here for the night? I am certain Mister Bodie would be only too happy - " 

Clasping Doyle's hand in both of his, in the grip of an unaccustomed emotion, Peter Doyle shook his head. "He has been civility itself regarding my intrusion, but I believe I shall leave. The carriage is comfortable and I have changes of horses arranged. Unlike you, I prefer Crenley." 

Doyle rang for Knowsley, whose over-prompt arrival suggested he might have been standing outside the door. 

"Write me of your progress?" requested Peter Doyle. 

"If you wish me to." 

"I hoped it did not have the sound of a command. I have learnt that much, you see." 

His smile unforced now, Doyle nodded. "I will write. God speed, sir." He made no attempt to follow his sire from the room but sank onto a chair with a sigh of relief, only now realising that he was shaking with fatigue. He was close to sleep when the library door finally re-opened. 

"Ray, is all well?" asked Bodie, closing the door before Knowsley had the chance to perform that office for him. 

"All is well," replied Doyle, hastening to stand, unaware that his appearance gave that claim the lie. "Thank you for your forbearance in allowing my father and I to take over your library." Following the direction of Bodie's gaze, he added, "My apologies for the damage to the clock. I will - " 

"None are necessary. Your father is a formidable man. I know our acquaintance has been slight but I should not care to cross him. Yet for all that, I like him. You and he are uncannily alike in some respects. I never connected Ray Doyle with Peter Doyle of Crenley." 

Caught mid-yawn, something in Bodie's tone made Doyle look up. "You speak as if the name has some significance." 

"The recluse of Crenley? Your father's reputation precedes him - rich as Golden Ball, renowned for his biting set-downs... All society has heard of him. I always assumed the name you supplied to be false. I might otherwise have realised Theo was your brother. He and I served together," Bodie added sombrely.

"You must have been in the field when he fell. Did you - ? His body was never found." 

"I'm sorry, but I was injured early in battle. This is probably the only reason I am alive today." Unconscious of what he did, Bodie touched the barely visible scar which ran beneath his hairline at the temple, his feeling of guilt for surviving when others had not resurfacing. 

Doyle placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Then thank God for it. Forgive me, I did not intend to re-open old wounds." 

"You did not. It is merely... Many men fell that day, some bodies were never formally identified." Meeting Doyle's anxious eyes, he managed a reassuring smile. "My wounds are all healed, I promise you. But what of you? Is all well, truly?" 

"I'm free." Doyle looked round, as if the sense of what he had said was only just sinking in. "I'm free, Bodie. To live where and how and with whom I choose. And it seems I am not destitute after all," he added naively. 

Bodie swallowed the first three retorts which sprang to mind. "Gordon will be delighted." 

"Gordon? Oh, to be sure, Gordon. I shall take him into my service with pleasure. He is not so bad," Doyle defended when Bodie gave him a sceptical look. 

"Have it your own way." 

"Do you know, I believe that is finally going to be possible." 

"You do not wish to return to Crenley? It is reported to be one of the most beautiful estates in England." And one of the wealthiest, Bodie added silently, mentally reeling from the realisation that he had offered the post of his lover and agent to the heir of Crenley. 

"While I have little to compare it with, I do not care for it over much," replied Doyle, sensing some change in Bodie's manner to himself and at a loss to account for it. 

"When do you intend to leave?" Bodie's unwary heart twisted at the thought of their parting. But a country squire and the heir to Crenley could have no future together. 

"I can be gone tonight if you wish it." Heading for the door, Doyle was too tired to conceal the extent of his hurt confusion, his new life tumbling in ruins around his ears. 

"Wish it?" In two strides Bodie had reached him, taking him in a fierce hug. "I want nothing of the kind. The Hall is your home for as long as you wish it to be. I merely thought you would prefer something more suited to your position in life." 

"My position?" echoed Doyle blankly, turning in the embrace to stare at Bodie. "What - ? Oh, Crenley. I have no intention of returning there until I must." Relief bubbling through his fatigue, he offered a crooked grin as he brushed a finger along one of Bodie's eyebrows, understanding the reason for his companion's change of mood now. "Don't think," he advised Bodie kindly. "You risk overtaxing a rarely-used muscle." 

"You will come to repent of that remark," threatened Bodie, kissing him. Begun as no more than a brushing of lip against lip, the embrace deepened to fill the emptiness in both men. "Well, I'm glad we have that settled," he remarked finally, his forehead resting against Doyle's as they stood together. "Come and eat, you must be famished. I know I am." 

"You have not dined?"

"I wanted to be near at hand in case my presence was required," said Bodie lamely. 

"My hero," mocked Doyle, but there was love in his eyes. "Come, we'd best dine before Cook despairs utterly." 

Watching Doyle push around his plate the food he was too tired to eat, Bodie cut short his own repast. "I shall ring for Gordon," he said, declining the port. 

"No. I should prefer to fend for myself tonight. I shall ask him to enter into my service tomorrow. I am a trifle fatigued. If you will excuse me?" 

"Of course," said Bodie easily, but he watched with concern as Doyle virtually crawled up the stairs. 

 

Waiting until the servants had retired for the night, Bodie slipped into Doyle's chamber. To his surprise not only was Doyle still awake but he had made no attempt to disrobe, save that his cravat lay in a crumpled heap on the bed. The room unlit, he stood in front of the fire, one forearm propped on the mantelshelf; his sombre expression did not invite interruption. 

Doyle's reverie was broken when a log shifted. While he found a smile for Bodie there was wariness rather than welcome in his manner. "I fear I shall be a dull companion for you." 

Frowning at the constraint in the other man's manner, Bodie waved that irrelevance to one side. "I thought you would have been asleep hours ago." 

Lighting a branch of candles, Doyle tossed the spill into the fire, watching it flare and burn. "Is the hour so advanced?" 

"Late enough. You would do better to rest." 

"Yes, I suppose I would," agreed Doyle vaguely. 

Watching his companion try to co-ordinate his fingers to the degree where he could disrobe, Bodie nudged Doyle's hands from the buttons of his waistcoat. "Allow me." 

"But I can - " Peeled from his tight-fitting coat and shrugged out of his waistcoat without further ado, Doyle's protest was muffled when his shirt was drawn over his head and a warm mouth nuzzled his left nipple. "You are a most unorthodox valet," he said, blinking as he emerged from the tangled fabric. 

"So I should hope," retorted Bodie with mock-severity. Unfastening pantaloons with a practised ease, he paused. "I am also inept, I neglected to remove your damned boots first." 

"I wondered when you would notice." His fingers spread over the dark crown of Bodie's head, Doyle tugged at an artistically dishevelled lock of hair. "I do not require assistance to perform a task - " 

"Cease babbling," Bodie adjured him. "I have never met a man who didn't have a devilish time removing his boots. I can think of many occupations worse than undressing you. I find you - " having dropped Doyle's second boot to the floor, he licked the curl of Doyle's navel " - beautiful." 

"Me?" Doyle's voice cracked in surprise. "How can you find this - " he gestured to his broken cheekbone " - attractive?" 

Bodie rubbed the place with a gentle finger. "Perhaps because it is a part of you and you stir both my heart and my blood in a way I have never known. That said, I would still consider you beautiful even if you did not," he added matter of factly. 

"You must be confusing me with Theo." 

"I could never confuse you with your brother. You and he have nothing in common." 

Having been hurtfully aware of that fact since he was in short coats, Doyle winced. "You need hardly remind me of that." 

"Why are you determined to misunderstand everything I say? Be still and believe you are beautiful. Here." 

Opening his eyes, Doyle gave the nightshirt Bodie was holding a look of distaste. "I don't care to wear one," he said with decision. 

"Nor do I. But Gordon seems to expect - " 

"Damn Gordon and his expectations," snapped Doyle, irritably conscious that he was making a poor showing and unable to explain his ill-humour, even to himself. 

Bodie's smile faded. "Sleep well." 

"Aren't you sleeping here?" asked Doyle in surprise. 

"You are fatigued." 

"But you are not. Come." When his wrist was taken in a bruising grip, Doyle stared from it to Bodie. 

"Don't ever - " It was with an obvious effort that Bodie caught hold of his temper. "I know I have not proved to be the most generous of lovers but even I am not that selfish. You are exhausted, troubled and in obvious discomfort from your side. Do you seriously imagine I would impose my need on you tonight? I thought only that you might welcome some company - an undemanding warmth - but it is obvious you prefer to be alone." 

His eyes looking huge in a too pale face, Doyle blinked rapidly before catching Bodie in a bone-cracking hug. "Come to bed," he said gruffly into Bodie's neck, more moved than he cared to admit. 

But suffering from wicked cramps in his side he made a restless bedfellow, snapping when Bodie voiced his concern. 

A few moments later Doyle said, "I did not intend to - " 

"Yes, you did," contradicted Bodie mildly. "My foolish question deserved a set-down, for it is obvious you are in pain. If you will not take laudanum at least have some brandy." 

"There is no need to wake one of the servants - " 

"As I keep reminding you, I am not completely helpless. I shall be but a moment. And spare me your protestations." Receiving no answer, Bodie bent over Doyle. "You were so quiet I was afraid you had lost consciousness," he explained when he received a questioning look. 

"No, merely cowed into submission."

"That has an unlikely ring to it. I wish there was something I could do," Bodie added abruptly.

"It would help if you would stop fussing," retorted Doyle, but he nuzzled Bodie's wrist even as he scolded. 

Disarmed, Bodie flushed and withdrew to find the brandy. He took longer than he had anticipated due to his collision with a footstool. His ensuing tumble into the fire-irons woke Potts, an eager under-footman, who took some time to convince that Bodie was not an intruder. Returning to Doyle's room, his dignity impaired by his coating of fire ash, Bodie found Doyle to be asleep. Wary of disturbing him he poured himself a generous measure of brandy, rubbed his bruised shin and tried to find a position of comfort in the uncomfortable chair by the fire.


	8. Chapter 8

EIGHT 

 

_It is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life._

 

Bluff as he might the following day, it was obvious Doyle was fit for nothing that was strenuous. The realisation doing nothing to sweeten his temper, he took his irritability out on everyone unfortunate enough to come into contact with him. Inevitably a too solicitous Gordon bore the brunt of the storm. Bodie found him outside Doyle's door, blowing a reddened nose.

"Mister Doyle, I suppose," he remarked, not without sympathy, having experienced the sharp edge of his lover's tongue more than once this morning.

Dabbing ineffectually at a stain on his coat, Gordon gave a miserable sniff. "Archie said he must take this physic. But when I offered it ... He wouldn't even let me stop to collect up the broken glass, he added tragically.

"If he had the energy to throw it at you I doubt if his condition is critical," replied Bodie heartlessly. "You should not fret over such an ungrateful master. Is this it? Leave the bottle with me. I will ensure he swallows the contents."

Gordon handed it over. "What if Mister Doyle ...?" Looking from the bottle to Bodie and back again, his concern was obvious.

Bodie grinned. "He'll not throw it at me, I promise you."

No more immune to Bodie's charm than his master, Gordon nodded and turned away.

"If you return in an hour or so I believe you will hear news about your future which will delight you. No, I shall say no more. It is for Mister Doyle to have the pleasure of telling you," Bodie said when, his expression miraculously lightened, Gordon would have questioned him. "Go and have a mug of ale."

Entering Doyle's room with the most perfunctory of taps on the door, Bodie eyed the shirt-sleeved figure of his lover with disfavour. "Before you let rip again, you may care to know that you have succeeded in reducing Gordon to tears. No great feat, I concede, but hardly worthwhile sport, particularly as he is foolish enough to worship the ground you walk on. What the devil do you mean by it?"

Severely out of sorts, Doyle gave him a look of dislike. "If you imagine I have to answer to you for my conduct you are vastly - "

A gasp escaping him, he doubled over, one hand impotently clutching his side.

Seeing a glass nearby, Bodie tossed the dregs of wine into the fire and poured out a generous measure of physic, thrusting it at Doyle the moment he was in a position to notice it. "Drink this, or so help me I'll hold your nose and tip it down your throat," he threatened, hating to see the other man's pain.

His breathing ragged, Doyle offered no resistance as he was settled onto a chair and the glass held to his mouth.

"Drink it. It will bring you ease."

"It's disgusting," Doyle complained, after a cautious sip.

"You cannot be feeling too bad if you can notice that. All of it." insisted his remorseless lover.

Recognising Bodie's poorly concealed anxiety, Doyle gave a resigned sigh and complied without further demur.

"That's better. Knew you had been doing too much. From now on you will ..." Busy outlining Doyle's regimen for the next few days, it was a few moments before Bodie realised he had lost the attention of his audience. "Ray? Ray, are you - ?"

Doyle tried to focus on the blurred face bent to him. "That," he mumbled in a slurred whisper, feeling no pain and little of anything else, "was unadulterated laudanum." His eyelids closing as if weighted, he slumped in the chair, his unsupported head lolling.

Aghast, Bodie stared at the sediment staining the glass before rushing to the door where he bellowed for Archie.

"I'm nae deaf," complained his henchman, wheezing after his assault on the stairs. "I felt sure the place must be on fire. What -- ? Oh. What's amiss wi' him noo?" He gave Doyle's unconscious figure an unenthusiastic look.

His face stark with fright, Bodie told him.

"One spoonful mixed wi' wine tae be taken every three hours were ma instructions. Ye gave him too much?"

Bodie held up the small bottle, which was only half full.

Sighing pessimistically, Archie shook his head.

"My God, I've killed him," said Bodie, his voice tight and unfamiliar, colour draining from his face.

"Dinna be sae daft," returned Archie crossly, thrusting a glass of brandy into his master's shaking hand. "Mind, he'll nae be disturbin' the peace for a while. Ye ken he'll hae a terrible head on him when he wakes?"

Weak with relief, Bodie shrugged that warning away. "I'll risk it."

"Weel, it's more I than will. Tak' his feet, he's nae lightweight," commanded Archie, lifting Doyle's shoulders without finesse or seeming effort. Under Bodie's pointed glare he took care to deposit Doyle gently on the bed, muttering under his breath as he stripped the lax figure. "I mae as weel tak' a look at his side while I'm here. Sit ye doon an' stop havering."

Aware of his master's anxiety, the Scot wasted little time ln announcing his findings. "Aye, 'tis as I thought. It's nae more than the muscles pulling as they draw taegether. He was told tae tak' it easy, but I've nae doot he ignored ma advice." Shooting a quick glance at Bodie, whose guilty expression spoke volumes, the Scot drew his own conclusions. But there was more approval in his manner when he tended to Doyle, prepared to forgive him all his faults if he kept his master happy.

***

"Of all the hare-brained things to do that has to take the cake," finished Doyle.

His state of repentance having dissolved midway through his lover's eloquent discourse on his failings, Bodie returned Doyle's glare with interest. "You knew what you were drinking why didn't you say something?"

"Terror," said Doyle promptly.

"Liar. Why?"

Aware that Bodie was not as alert to the humorous aspects of this as he should be, Doyle told the truth. "My side hurt and ... you were anxious," he muttered.

"You should have seen me when you lost consciousness. You look much recovered after your enforced rest."

His pupils reduced to pinpricks. Doyle squinted at him in the candlelight. "I feel it. I cannot conceive why the pain should have returned now," he added irritably.

Having explained Archie's theory, which did little to appease his companion, Bodie left the bedside only to return holding another small bottle.

Doyle viewed it with the darkest suspicion. "What are you proposing to poison me with this time?"

"This is for external use only, to keep the healing flesh supple. Archie thought Gordon could apply it."

Gordon's delicacy of touch something it was unwise to rely upon, Doyle shuddered.

"My view entirely. If you will entrust me with the task, I am prepared to give you the treatment you require." Bodie's tone was one of noble sacrifice.

"l could not impose on your good nature."  
"Just take your damn nightshirt off," commanded Bodie, treating that meek statement with the contempt it deserved.

 

While he grinned, it was clear from Doyle's uncoordinated struggles that the drug still held sway. Easing the nightshirt over the curly head, Bodie gave a remorseful sigh.

 

"How do you feel?"

 

"Sleepy. Do not look so tragic. I am merely ..." Interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn, Doyle grimaced, "tired." As Bodie took the stopper from the bottle, he added, "Gordon can see to that."

 

"It is no hardship." Bodie warmed a little lotion in his palm, his touch gentleness itself as he massaged the puckered wound and the muscles surrounding it. Working in silence, his reward came when he felt Doyle begin to relax.

 

"That feels wonderful. Is Gordon recovered?"

 

"Once he understood I had not poisoned you of intent," replied Bodie sombrely, wiping his fingers clean.

 

"My devilish temper."

 

Bodie nudged Doyle's chin with a clenched fist. "ln case it has escaped your notice I am more than capable of holding my own with you."

 

A trace of anxiety in his eyes, Doyle did not return his smile. "l wonder," he murmured cryptically.

 

"Go back to sleep," Bodie advised him tolerantly. "You might make more sense when you awake."

 

"Perhaps." It took Doyle a moment to remember what he had intended to say. "You mentioned that I reduced Gordon to tears. I should like to see him if he has not returned to the Grimsbys for the night."

 

"He is probably camping outside the door," said Bodie wryly. "Can it not wait?"

 

"I should prefer to make my apologies to him now. He has come on so well that l forgot... l should like to make amends."

 

"Very well. But if you are set on seeing him you'd best..." Bodie held up the despised nightshirt.

 

Sighing, Doyle allowed it to be slipped over his head.

 

By the following morning Doyle had slept off the final effects of the laudanum. He woke at an early hour in a sunny temper, proving himself to be full of energy, a sight which Bodie viewed with the gravest mistrust. Gordon, however, merely beamed his approval. Having been offered the position of Doyle's manservant, he was so full of himself that he even went so far as to enquire if his master would care for a bath.

***

 

Peter Doyle proved to be as good as his word. Within a few days his son found himself in possession of more money than he had seen in his life. Having made Bodie privy to the bare bones of his history, including the twist of fate which had left him lying wounded in Bodie's path, Doyle added, "my father asks that I write him. With your permission I intend to inform him that I shall be spending some time here, putting into practice my theories regarding land management." 

 

"He will not be best pleased," Bodie warned.

 

Doyle shrugged with a genuine lack of interest. "That is of small consequence. Like much else around here at the moment," he added, giving his companion's lax penis a mischievous tweak.

 

"The fault is yours for exhausting me." His head on Doyle's shoulder as they lay watching the spluttering flames of the fire it was some time before Bodie found the courage to add. "I know we have already touched upon the subject, but can you truly find enough to content you in the country? No, hear me out," he insisted when Doyle would have interrupted him. "You have had little opportunity to see anything of the world and I am your first lover. l do not wish you to feel obligated to ..."

 

The rest was lost in Doyle's kiss, the younger man in no mood to entertain doubts on any score that night.

***

 

Bodie refused to admit that his eagerness to take Doyle to London stemmed from his fear that his lover would grow tired of his life at the Hall, which was no better than a hovel when compared to Crenley. 

 

"Does my lack of Town gloss embarrass you?" enquired Doyle acidly when Bodie aired the topic over breakfast yet again.

 

"Don't be nonsensical. I merely thought --" Mindful of the presence of the servants, Bodie trailed off into silence.

 

Saluting him with a tankard of ale Doyle gave a crooked grin. "To escape the work which must be done before the spring planting can begin, no doubt."

 

Oblivious to the amused glint in his companion's eyes Bodie took the suggestion seriously. "You would rather bury yourself in agricultural pursuits?"

 

Doyle's rich chuckle making him aware of another possible meaning, Bodie gave an unwilling grin. "Be serious," he begged.

 

"All the time," Doyle assured him, before he sobered. "I am more than content. Unless you wish to visit London."

 

A wry twist to his mouth, Bodie shook his head. "While it goes against the grain to admit as much, I believe I am a country mouse at heart."

 

Smiling at that unlikely description, Doyle finished his ale and allowed himself to be persuaded to visit Bodie's tailor and bootmaker, the former of whom had been apprenticed to the great Weston. He soon found himself in possession of a wardrobe more fitting to his station in life, despite his protests that he would not require half the garments Bodie deemed necessary. His greatest pleasure came from purchasing a chestnut gelding, which brought a gleam of admiration to Saul Grimsby's eyes.

 

Wishing to expend some of his new wealth on his lover, Doyle set about trying to discover what gift would please Bodie most without bruising his prickly pride. In his view Bodie was foolishly sensitive regarding his own prospects, but he had learnt enough of his lover to know when to step gently.

 

Having discovered Bodie's love of weaponry, Doyle sought advice from the Squire without, of course. telling him for whom the gift was intended, and ordered a pair of Manton's duelling pistols.

 

Presenting the walnut case to Bodie when they were private together, Doyle achieved the rare feat of rendering his lover speechless.

 

"They are exquisite. And with perfect balance. But why?" Setting the pistol he had been examining back into the velvet-lined case, Bodie's mouth thinned. "If you have any nonsensical notion of repaying that debt l conjured from the air --"

 

"They are a love gift," snapped Doyle.

 

"Oh." Deprived of eloquence, the expression ln Bodie's eyes spoke for him.

***

 

While riding round the estate with Doyle, introducing him to tenants and neighbours alike, Bodie displayed little interest in beginning the task of setting the estate to rights, his enthusiasm reserved for showing Doyle a world he was convinced could offer more than himself. Entering Doyle's chamber late one night, he raised the topic again.

 

"Next week l thought we might ..."

 

"... begin the work of draining the bottom meadow," said Doyle firmly. "Before you start, I am not bored - except by your refusal to accept I am enjoying myself and we are behind schedule. Spring planting will be upon us before we know it. I have yet to complete my inventory of the existing stock and equipment, but I fear we shall need at least two new wagons. The Squire tells me that Kemple over at Hampton has a ram which --"

 

Bodie placed a hand over Doyle's mouth to stem the flow, freeing him only when Doyle's tongue tip teased his palm.

 

"We should begin work in earnest rather than playing at it," insisted Doyle.

 

"l suppose so. But I still think we could spare time for a month or so in London. I want to show you the world."

 

"And so you shall, later. We have time enough, all the time we require," said Doyle, to whom the sense of being released from prison was so new that it was impossible for him to take his freedom from responsibility for granted.

 

Bodie avoided his gaze. "Have we? You are heir to one of the largest estates in the country. ln due course duty to your inheritance will force us to part."

 

"I have paid my debt to Crenley."

 

Clasping Doyle's shoulders, Bodie shook him gently. "Much as you may wish to, you cannot ignore the inevitable. While your father is not in his dotage, he is not a young man. Crenley is a very different proposition from my modest holding."

 

"Modest is not an appellation it would occur to me to employ in connection with you," retorted Doyle, trying to make light of it. While he understood what Bodie was trying to tell him he had no intention of considering its implications.

 

"l am serious, damn it! You know little of Society. Permit me to inform you that if the heir to Crenley chooses to remain here as my agent tongues will wag. Even if they should fail to stumble across the truth the scandal could still ruin us."

 

A forceful finger prodded him in the ribs. "Enough! If the need arises we shall have to consider dividing our time between Crenley and the Hall. There, the matter is settled."

 

"And what of your responsibilities to your family name? Marriage," elucidated Bodie when Doyle failed to react.

 

"I might ask you the same thing."

 

"I've no intention of being leg-shackled, nor is it essential that I should be. l have nephews in plenty to follow me. You do not. There has been a Doyle at Crenley for ..."

 

"Then perhaps it is time there was not!" His vehemence gaining no response, Doyle sat up the better to see his companion's face. Bodie's frowning profile did little to allay the doubts which had set in. Silent for a moment, Doyle's face took on a pinched look before he added, "If you wish me to leave, you have only to say."

 

Refocusing in time to recognise the misery behind the pride which was preventing Doyle from saying more, Bodie forgot all thoughts of prudence. "Of all the nonsensical notions you have produced that is the most idiotish. l hold you in ... Oh, come here," he said gruffly, hugging Doyle to him.

 

While he did not forget his worries for their future, Bodie did not voice them again. But, unconscious of what he was doing, a small part of himself remained distanced - as a protection for the day when he knew Doyle would leave of his own volition. First love was notoriously fickle and Bodie was only too aware of his own shortcomings. As night followed day it was inevitable that Doyle would tire of him and leave. Until then ... Enjoy it while you can, Bodie told himself bleakly.

 

For his own part Doyle too had his secrets, even from himself. A virtual innocent in affairs of the heart and lacking town bronze, the slights and insults received throughout his formative years had left their mark. As the days slipped into weeks, he began to wonder if he could offer any lover enough to hold their interest for long. Having been misnamed an ill-made runt whose broken face would disgust anyone of gentle breeding, neither the evidence of his own mirror nor the glow in Bodie's eyes could counteract the slow poison he had been fed by his stepmother. Possessed of a stubborn pride, Doyle carried wounds he would never admit to, including an insecurity which Bodie was not even aware existed.

 

It was not that Doyle was eager to believe the worst of his lover or that he doubted his sincerity, merely that Bodie's extreme good looks and competence in every field of endeavour made him a formidable presence. He would never be at a loss when it came to seeking a partner, particularly one with a more amenable temperament. His nagging worm of insecurity apart, Doyle was happier than he had ever been. Within a short space of time he found it difficult to remember that the Hall had not always been his home.

 

He made his mark as Bodie's man of affairs with an ease which might have surprised him had he paused to think about it. While wondering if Bodie and Saul Grimsby between them might have had anything to do with smoothing his passage with the workers around the estate, particularly his erstwhile companions in the stables, Doyle found the wisdom not to question them. As it happened, his innate dignity and natural flair for command were responsible, a fact which give Bodie an increased sense of pride in his lover.

 

Even Joseph seemed to view Doyle with a degree of favour (or at least an absence of malice), wedlock providing a degree of conjugal felicity he had not anticipated. Joseph supposed vaguely that it might have something to do with the fact that he and Rose no longer relied upon furtive couplings in the straw to cement their relationship and thought no more of it, settling down to a life of marital bliss in his tied cottage while watching with a proprietorial pride his wife's belly ripen.

***

 

It had not taken Doyle long to discover the paucity of agreeable reading material in Bodie's library. As he grew in confidence he did not hesitate to voice his opinion.

 

"What do you suppose these are, then?" protested Bodie, gesturing to the packed shelves.

 

"That is an excellent question. Don't you know?"

 

"Of course I do," said Bodie, trying not to stare too obviously over Doyle's shoulder. "Belles-lettres and the classics." Viewing Doyle's spreading grin, he sighed his defeat. "No," he admitted.

 

"So I imagined. For your information your much vaunted library consists of a collection of rotting leather covers, within which are more sermons than I thought existed."

 

"There must be something else."

 

"True. Improving homilies and a few works in the original Greek."

 

"Good God! I wonder where they came from? The Bodies are not great readers," the head of the house explained unnecessarily, his nose wrinkling at the unpleasant musty smell of the volume Doyle had thrust at him.

 

"I can understand why not if this is all that has been available to you. Will you permit me to make good the deficiency?"

 

"Certainly not. I shall provide anything that is required," said Bodie, very much in the grand manner.

 

Unimpressed, Doyle's grin broadened as he ducked the cuff floated in his direction. "Perhaps some wine?" he suggested with native cunning.

 

"Trying to get me foxed, eh?"

 

"Merely amenable to my wishes."

 

Bodie's hands framed his companion's smiling face. "Trust me, Ray."

 

While it went against the grain on this topic, seduced by the velvety tone, Doyle met the dense blue of the gaze directed at him and was lost even before Bodie's mouth brushed his own.

 

Doyle's communication arrived at Hatchard's in London on the same day as Bodie's. While Bodie's order was far shorter than Doyle's, his request caused the bookseller considerable satisfaction. Making no pretence of being bookish himself, Bodie had no objection to anything which would increase Doyle's contentment at the Hall, and had given Hatchard's a carte blanche to restock his library with every volume a gentleman of quality could desire, adding a standing order for new works. Still haunted by doubt that his companion would soon become dissatisfied with the quiet life they led at the Hall, he placed little value on his own powers of attraction, for all his seeming confidence.

 

Intending to surprise his companion with a library refurbished in the current mode, Bodie encouraged Doyle's plans to visit Norfolk to confer with Mister Coke, an acknowledged master in the field of modern methods of agriculture. The workmen arrived approximately ten minutes after Doyle, accompanied by a highly excited Gordon, had ridden down the drive. Bodie kept himself busy during the week of Doyle's absence. But the nights seemed very long and the days empty now there was no one with whom he could share the small delights or disasters.

***

 

Greeting Doyle with a studied nonchalance for the benefit of the servants, Bodie was delighted to see the same message in his lover's eyes.

 

Sharing the gist of what he had learnt during his stay in Norfolk over the seemingly interminable meal, by the time the decanter of port had been set in front of him Doyle had become aware that Bodie had a secret to impart, unless it was merely the anticipation they both felt for the time when they could be private together.

 

"What have you been about while l have been away? From the glint ln your eye it is something ... You did not permit the Squire to talk you into buying that broken-down old nag of his?" Doyle demanded, sitting bolt upright.

 

"Certainly not. My judgement of horseflesh is superb," said Bodie, loftily ignoring his lover's hoot of derision. "Do you intend to drink that, or are you merely inhaling it?" he added, unable to bear the suspense any longer.

 

"What have you done?" asked Doyle with amused recognition as he rose to his feet.

 

"Your trust in me is overwhelming. Is it so strange that I should wish to talk with you? That will be all, Knowsley," Bodie added, leading the way into the library.

 

One glance enough to show him the miracle which had been wrought in his absence, Doyle stopped in his tracks. Slowly surveying the contents of the shelf nearest to him, he turned. "Shut the door," he commanded huskily. stalking Bodie.

 

Doing so, Bodie remained where he was. "What do you intend?"

 

"To thank you," said Doyle, his hands already burrowing beneath Bodie's garments.

 

"But what about the books?" asked Bodie half-heartedly, keeping his weight firmly against the door to prevent possible intrusion.

 

His palm settling where he knew it would be most appreciated, Doyle smiled. "You would rather read?"

 

"Perhaps later," allowed Bodie, earning himself a sharp pinch before Doyle settled against him, their lower bodies already moving in unison.

***

 

"You reading - voluntarily," teased Doyle, entering Bodie's chamber late one evening in May to find the master of the house with his legs comfortably outstretched, a glass of Madeira to hand and a frown on his face.

 

Having been too engrossed to hear Doyle arrive, Bodie gave a guilty start and attempted to tuck the volume down the side of the chair. "I found it on the table in your room," he explained with a betraying defensiveness.

 

"What is it?" asked Doyle, knotting the sash of his crimson robe.

 

"Just a book."

 

His curiosity aroused by the evasion, Doyle pursued the point, winning the short tussle because he employed several unorthodox holds before he danced out of Bodie's reach, the volume in one hand.

 

"Now, what is it you are so eager l should not see? Pride and Prejudice?" Delighted surprise on his face, Doyle stared at his lover.

 

Bodie's lower lip jutted sullenly. "You seem to set such store by it that I had a notion to glance at it. But I've no interest in silly young chits chasing after husbands. God knows I have suffered from being pursued myself. How can you bear to read such dull stuff?"

 

"Dull?"

 

"Dull," insisted Bodie.

 

"Then you cannot have read far. The wit and shrewd observation of the author are - " 

Bodie snorted.

 

"Only let me read you a passage," coaxed Doyle.

 

Bodie gave a reluctant nod, more because he knew it would give him the opportunity to study Doyle while remaining unobserved himself than from any real enthusiasm.

 

His robe parting in a way which did little for Bodie's concentration, Doyle seated himself cross-legged on the bed and introduced Bodie to Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Mister Collins. After a few minutes he glanced up in time to see Bodie endeavouring to keep a straight face.

 

"Well, those passages give you some idea of the author's style," he remarked, closing the book.

 

"You're stopping?"

 

"I have no desire to bore you." Doyle's expression was innocence personified.

 

Bodie muttered something incomprehensible.

 

"I didn't quite catch that."

 

"You'll catch more than you bargained for if you don't stop provoking me," Bodie said in more of his usual tone, aware of the amusement he was providing. "It cannot hurt to read a little more." As if feeling compelled to explain his aberration, he added. "Cassie's mother-in-law could be that woman's twin. She's a gorgon of a woman. I won't have her in the house."

 

"Cassie?" queried Doyle, having found Bodie to be less than forthcoming about his family.

 

"My youngest sister."

 

"How many siblings have you?"

 

"Only five, although Eudora was of an age which made her seem more of a parent than a sister. Fortunately they all found themselves husbands. We rub along tolerably well but I should not care to find myself saddled with the task of housing them."

 

"Have you just the five sisters"

 

"Five is ample," replied Bodie in heartfelt tones. "The Bodies are prolific breeders," he added with gloom. "Fanny keeps threatening to descend on me while her spouse is abroad - Aiken is Sir Edward Manning's secretary. As she would undoubtedly inflict her four youngest on the household ..."

 

"You could always suggest the benefits of sea air over that of the country. Are your sisters like you in appearance?"

 

"Hardly."

 

Doyle threw a pillow at him. "You know what l meant."

 

"We are all dark-haired and pale skinned, I suppose," offered Bodie, who would have been hard-pressed to identify his sisters if he met them in a crowded room.

 

"And beautiful." Crouching in front of the seated man, Doyle opened the dark blue robe Bodie wore and began to explore.

 

Parting his thighs to improve Doyle's access, Bodie smiled. "Am I to take it that our literary interlude is concluded?"

 

"You may take whatever you wish," said Doyle generously, ceding the initiative.


	9. Chapter 9

NINE 

 

Having declined to rise before dawn for the dubious pleasure of a morning's rabbit shooting with the Squire and his cronies, most of whom Doyle found heavy going, he elected to sleep alone rather than risk discovery when Archie came to wake his master. Although pleasantly tired after a day in the saddle, sleep proved to be curiously elusive. Quite apart from the athletic pleasures of the bedchamber Doyle missed the sense of someone sleeping beside him. Giving up his fruitless quest, he crept into Bodie's room only to collide with the master of the house, who was on the same mission. Giggling like children, they collapsed into Bodie's bed. 

It was sheer good fortune that a sleepy Doyle had stumbled from Bodie's arms into the water closet when Archie arrived. Duly warned by Bodie's over-loud complaints, Doyle left the closet from the door which led to his own room and fell into bed with gratitude. *** 

After a damp morning at the Home Farm, where he checked on the rebuilding of the byre and clearing of a choked stream, Doyle was in no hurry to return to the paperwork awaiting him at the Hall. If he knew the garrulous Squire Bodie would be lucky to get away before four at the earliest. His digestive system recovering from Mrs Weaver's leaden pigeon pie, and with a better understanding of her spouse's dyspeptic view of life, Doyle allowed his mount to amble home, enjoying the sharp green scents of the day now the rain had eased. Cresting the steep slope of the West Meadow, he reined his mount in when he saw an elegant equipage turn into the drive of the Hall, the postilions proclaiming that this must be a visitor grander by far than any of their neighbours. Knowing that Bodie was not expecting any guests, and devoutly hoping that none of Bodie's fecund sisters had decided to descend on them without prior notice, Doyle set off for the Hall at a trot. 

By the time he rode up to the front of the house the carriage had been taken round to the yard and the guests settled out of sight. Casting an interrogatory glance at Knowsley as he stripped off his riding gloves, Doyle tossed his hat onto a nearby chair, blind to the butler's look of pain. 

"We have guests, I believe." 

"Indeed we do, sir." 

"Is there any hope of you telling me their identity?"

Knowsley's expression changed to that of a man who foresaw a difficult moment ahead of him. "The gentleman declared himself to be - That is to say, he claims to be your brother, sir." 

Doyle's riding crop slid from his grasp. "If this is a jest, it is ill-timed." 

"That is what he claimed, sir," said Knowsley, his manner a mixture of the defensive and apologetic. "He is obviously a gentleman," he added comfortingly. 

Doyle gave a rueful grin, that not a description he would make of either John or James. "Where is he?" 

"He declared his intention of taking a stroll down to the lake, sir." 

Doyle began to worry at what new crisis could occasion either of his step-brothers to drag themselves from the pleasures of London. Glimpsing movement, he strode over to the long windows at the far end of the hall to stare at the distant figure of a man before he was lost from view amongst the trees. Both John and James took their colouring from Consuela, but the man's build had been tantalisingly familiar. 

"Theo?" he breathed, knowing it was impossible. 

"That was the name he gave, sir. Mister Theodore Doyle." 

Ignoring the engraved card on the salver, Doyle stared across the empty expanse of parkland. "Theo..." More certainty in his voice now, it was the work of seconds to unfasten the window. 

"His wi - " Resigned, Knowsley watched Doyle vault out of the window to drop the eight feet onto the gravel before racing across the rolling expanse of lawn in a manner wholly unbecoming to his station. 

Severely disconcerting the grazing sheep, who scattered in panic, it took Doyle only a short while to catch up with the stranger. His pace slowed, then stopped when he was a few feet away from the man who stood with a broad shoulder propped against the trunk of a twisted willow which grew at the water's edge. Flicking pebbles with a sharp wrist action which caused them to bounce and dance across the surface of the lake, he was sublimely unconscious of the fact he was being watched. 

Doyle's breathing, barely discommoded by his run, grew unsteady. "Theo?" 

Turning, the man nodded. "Theodore Doyle at your service. You have the advantage of me, sir." His gold-brown eyes widened in recognition. "Good God, it's young Raymond! By all that's holy! I scarce recognise you, you've changed so, young 'un." 

Having been staring at the handsome, good-natured face with dawning belief, Doyle began to laugh. Seconds later he caught his brother in a fierce embrace. 

"Dashed if I can see what's so amusin'," said Theo, holding the younger man at arm's length the better to study him. 

"You wouldn't." Returning his brother's survey, the smile slowly faded from Doyle's eyes. Innumerable questions jostling for priority, he voiced the most innocuous of them. "How did you know where to find me?" 

"Our revered sire, of course. He insisted, in fact. I am dashed glad to see you, and looking in such fine fettle," Theo added with belated tact. 

"Surely he does not doubt your identity?" said Doyle frowning. While the man facing him was very changed in some respects from the brother he had mourned, it was undoubtedly Theo. 

"Doubt me?" It was obviously a new thought, and one quickly shrugged aside. "Why should he - ? Oh, no matter. No, but he seemed to imagine... That is, he believes you may have a cause for grievance." 

"Against you? Why? I cannot tell you how it gladdens my heart to see you alive and well. But where have you been?" 

"He is concerned that - Dash it all, Raymond! You have been believing yourself heir to Crenley all this time," expostulated Theo, interrupting his brother in the hope of staving off questions whose answers experience with his sire had taught him would not be well received. 

"Is he addle-pated enough to believe I will resent your resurrection?" 

Admiration for his sibling's quick-wittedness changed to amusement as Theo recognised the change in tone. "Don't get in a dander with me, my lad. It was his idea, not mine," he said with an appreciative grin. 

"It would be. Surely even he cannot be such a nod-cock as to believe that? But he sent you here, you say?" Knowing that unless Theo's personality had undergone a marked change it would not have occurred to his brother that he would have been mourned, it belatedly dawned on Doyle that his father's motives might have been more generous than they gave him credit for. 

"He was concerned that you would not believe the news unless you saw me for yourself." Theo's tone was that of one unable to understand what all the fuss was about. 

"He has a point," Doyle conceded. 

Scooping up some more pebbles, Theo began to toss them in his hand. "I hear I missed a rare set-to with our step-mama. There's a rum do if you like. From all accounts you had a hard time of it. The Old Man never could see beyond the nose of his face, unless it suited him to do so." 

"Never mind that now," dismissed Doyle, once he had recovered from his surprise that Theo should have noticed as much. 

"That is easy for you to say. He gave me a rare trimming. I vow he did not pause for nigh on ten minutes." 

"Are you surprised?" There was a betraying acidity in Doyle's tone. 

For all his seniority a faint look of apprehension stole into Theo's handsome face. "Don't glare at me so. I swear there are times when you remind me of the Old Man," he said severely. 

"A fate to be avoided at all costs," allowed Doyle with a reluctant smile. "I shall endeavour not to scold. What in Heaven's name became of you?" 

"When?" 

Realising Theo's vacuity was genuine, Doyle uttered a silent prayer for patience. "We were told you fell at Quatre Bras." 

"I did," Theo assured him. 

"And died. Apparently it was not uncommon for a body to be so disfigured that it could not be identified." 

"No." For a moment Theo's features bore a sombre introspection uncannily akin to Bodie's when the subject was mentioned. 

"It was that bad then," said Doyle. 

"Bad, you say? Aye. At times unspeakable. I'd liefer not discuss it if it's all the same to you."

Noting the subtle change in Theo's manner Doyle was no longer surprised that his indolent, easy-going brother had been capable of commanding troops. "My only interest is in the happy fortune which enabled you to survive." 

"Well, that's where I'm still in the dark myself to a degree," said Theo, stuffing a grimy hand into a pocket in a manner which would cause his valet to despair. "I took a devilish knock when I was blown out of the saddle. The next thing I knew I was lying in bed with my leg hurting like Hades, looking up into the face of an angel." His expression could best be described as fatuous. 

With heroic self-control Doyle swallowed the retort which sprang to mind, rejected the two which followed and counted slowly to ten. 

Obviously of the opinion he had explained all that was needful, Theo made no attempt to break the silence. 

"What became of you in the time which has elapsed since then?" 

"I couldn't remember a dashed thing, you understand. There are still a few gaps. Deuced uncomfortable it was too. Then flashes started to come back to me. Though I could remember my horse's name from the first. Odd that." 

Resigned amusement in his eyes, Doyle shook his head. "It seems your tale will be a while in the telling. I've no doubt you will find it easier with a glass of wine in your hand." 

"I should," admitted Theo frankly, his expression brightening. "But later perhaps. The thing is," he confided, "I've never been able to abide a sickbed." 

Yet to make any connection between the two remarks, Doyle gave what he trusted was an encouraging nod and followed his brother as he set off for a stroll around the lakeside. 

"Annaliese is a trifle under the weather, y'see. Only to be expected, I suppose." 

"Who is Annaliese?" 

Stopping in his tracks, Theo gave him a look of surprise. "M'wife, of course. Didn't I think to mention - ? Well, no, there hasn't been much time for explanations, has there. We've been leg-shackled for nigh on two years now. It was she I saw when I recovered my senses and - " 

"How is it that a man lacking an identity could marry?" interrupted Doyle ruthlessly, in no mood to listen to romantic eulogies. 

"Don't you start," begged Theo. "I have suffered all these questions and a host besides from our sire. Though I don't understand why he cut up so stiff. When I think of all the females he thrust my way. There again, I suppose he did not reckon with my marrying a widow with two youngsters of her own. They're fine little chaps," he added proudly. "Think the world of me. And I of them," he added with a trace of defiance. "This is not a case of history repeating itself. Anyone less like Consuela it would be hard to imagine." 

The thought had not entered Doyle's head but he had no difficulty in guessing what Peter Doyle must have said. "Of course she is not." He cast a wary eye around the placid lakeside, his limited acquaintance with the young having given him no fondness for them. "Have your stepsons accompanied you?" 

"Of course not," said Theo, shocked. "We left 'em at Crenley with their nurse. She's a good sort of woman. Knew Papa would not object." 

"Did you think to ask him?" said Doyle, lacking his brother's touching faith on that score. 

"No. Oh, Lord. Do you suppose I should have done?" 

Doyle caught his lower lip between his teeth until he trusted his voice, all his sympathies with his sire. "Perhaps it would have been wiser. You may recall, he is not overly fond of the young. Your wife is unwell?" 

"Increasing. Papa urged her to come with me. I cannot say I am sorry she agreed. We are accustomed to being together. Not the fashion I know." 

His time with Bodie enabling him to understand that, Doyle's manner further thawed. "You have the sound of a happy man." 

"I am. That is, I will be once I've got all these cursed explanations out of the way." Theo gave a weighty sigh. 

The breeze ruffling his hair, Doyle pulled gently at heads of tufted grass as they strolled along. "You must expect us to evince some small interest in your life since we saw you last." 

"I suppose so. But how was I to know I had been declared killed in action! It was weeks before I regained my memory and months before the damned quacks would allow me to test out this leg. If it was not for Annaliese they would have cut it off." 

"Then I have something else to thank her for," said Doyle, who had been careful to make no comment on his brother's halting gait. "There were no problems with her family?" 

"None at all. They are splendid people. Couldn't do enough for me." 

Unsurprised that the heir to one of the wealthiest estates in the land should have received so much care, Doyle hid his cynicism, knowing it would not have occurred to his brother that he had been tricked into marriage. "What of your career in the army?" 

"Over," said Theo succinctly, slapping his thigh. "I had no problems with the War Office. I wrote them before we wed. Only right to keep 'em in the picture." 

Wondering how his father had enjoyed learning of his own lack of importance in Theo's scheme of things, Doyle wished he had heard his brother's delivery. He steered his brother into the house and by dint of patient perseverance dragged the bare bones of the story from Theo over a glass of wine. To his relief he learnt that his new sister-in-law was resting in one of the guest rooms, attended by her maid and most of the female staff. Matters progressed so well between the two brothers that by that time evening drew in, Doyle had almost succeeded in convincing Theo that he must accept the return of the revenues Doyle had been drawing upon as heir to Crenley. 

"In truth I have no need of them. My allowance is more than generous and my inheritance from our Grandmother all I need." 

Theo shook his head. "It's bad enough that I should rob you of your expectations without - " 

"Poppycock! I detest Crenley and had no intention of setting foot on it until I had to. Let me hear no more on that score. You are robbing me of nothing but unwanted responsibilities," said Doyle with truth. "When did you return to England?" 

About to answer, Theo was interrupted by Knowsley bearing the message that his wife wished to see him. 

"You must go, of course," said Doyle, rising with well-hidden relief. He was ashamed to admit that after only a few hours in his brother's company he was already a little bored. "Naturally you will stay the night. I know Mister Bodie will be only too pleased to extend his hospitality to you. I have a couple of matters I must attend to before we dress for dinner." 

"This Mister Robert Bodie, is he an elderly man?" asked Theo casually. 

"William," corrected Doyle. "I believe you and he are of an age." 

"William! By all that's holy! He's an ex-army man, I'll wager." Doyle nodded. "Never say William Bodie survived! Why I thought him lost for sure. Lord, he and I - No matter." 

"I had forgotten. Bodie mentioned that he knew you." 

"I should say he does! As well as one man may know another. No, better. Here's pleasure indeed. William was always dear to my heart." 

The day lost some of its savour for Doyle, a cold hand seeming to clutch at his vitals. Only one man had been given permission to use Bodie's given name, his lover who had died at Quatre Bras. As Theo was supposed to have done, Doyle reminded himself numbly. Oh God, not his own brother. Not with Bodie.

"Ray, is anything amiss? You look as if you have seen a ghost. Here, drink this." 

"Thank you, but I am in no need of a restorative," said Doyle, cold to his bones. His own brother. "We keep country hours at the Hall," he added, scarcely knowing what he was saying. "I believe Knowsley is waiting to escort you to your wife." 

"As you wish," said Theo, too well-bred to comment on the change in his brother's manner. "I cannot wait to see Bodie's expression when you introduce us. He and I were - But never mind that now," he added, obviously thinking the better of whatever indiscretion he had been about to let slip. "William Bodie rusticating in the country with only my little brother for company! Lord, what a facer." 

Close to striking him, Theo's amused dismissal of his charms like acid spilling onto already raw flesh, Doyle lifted his chin, as though anticipating a blow. "Who indeed?" he murmured. "If you will excuse me." 

Once in the privacy of his room he remained with his back to the closed door, fighting nausea at the mental images whirling in his brain of the two men he loved best in the world, if in different ways, locked in a carnal embrace. But at the forefront of his mind was revulsion and an anger he nurtured because it kept the pain at bay. He did not begrudge Bodie his lover, or not much. What brought the bile into his throat was the fact that after Bodie had learnt that Theo and he were brothers he had permitted the relationship to flourish. 

His eyes closed against the powerful images which forced their way into his brain, Doyle tried to convince himself that his suspicions were groundless. But the insecurity he hid so well had broken free, feeding his revulsion at what he felt to be an abomination. Unwitting or not, his own relationship with Bodie bordered close on incest. Bad enough to be brought face to face with Bodie's first, perfect lover, the man who had meant everything to him. That the man should have been Theo was unbearable. 

And who was to say that their relationship would not revive? Once given, Bodie's loyalty was infinite and he was a man whose emotions were not easily engaged. As for Theo... For all his talk of marital bliss - Oh God. 

The feeling of betrayal was a physical pain. 

Doyle was jolted back to the present when he heard hurried footsteps, followed by a door banging and muffled voices next door. Bodie was late and would have no time to spare. Changing with a disregard for his clothing that would have made his tailor weep, Doyle slipped from his room, wanting to avoid being alone with Bodie at all costs. Needing time to regain a semblance of composure he made his way onto the minstrels gallery which overlooked the black and white checked floor of the main hall. 

A prey to dreadful doubts, he was standing in the shadows, his knuckles yellow where he gripped the balustrade, when Theo and his lover converged on one another from opposite doorways beneath him. 

Bodie stopped in his tracks and said in a queer voice, "You..." 

His shocked whisper contained so much betraying emotion that Doyle bit savagely on his lower lip, consumed by jealousy. 

"My God, I believed you dead." 

As Theo walked into the light Bodie seemed to stumble. A moment later he had taken Theo in a fierce hug, his face alight with joy. "I thought you dead!" 

Galvanised into action, Doyle fled at that point, his only thought to escape. In the grip of primitive emotions, he was torn between a longing to howl his desolation to an uncaring world and to kill the man who had betrayed him. 

His breathing ragged, he took refuge in his room, drawing deep, unsteady gulps of air until the red haze cleared from his vision. But the memory of that embrace, and the blazing delight on Bodie's face refused to fade. 

He bundled a change of linen and some guineas into a bag, scribbled a four line note for his host and made his way unnoticed down the servants' stairway and into the yard. A savage look silencing Ned Smith's protest as he took Bodie's grey, Doyle lifted himself into the saddle and galloped down the drive, intending to go as far and as fast from the Hall as he could. 

Needing some distraction, he soon abandoned the highway for the more taxing demands of cross-country riding, urging his mount on. Only when the grey stumbled and faltered did Doyle relax their frantic pace. Dismounting, he led the lamed animal along moonlit lanes. He was in the mood to welcome attack by footpads, but encountered nothing beyond an old dog fox with a young pheasant between its jaws. 

For the horse's sake Doyle stopped at the first refuge he found, a small inn that was a county away from the Hall and Bodie. Making heavy inroads on the brandy, Doyle ignored the meal he had ordered for appearances' sake and spent a sleepless night in his bedchamber. By then anger at having been duped into providing Bodie with his second lover from the Doyle family had overtaken his grief. He clung to that anger. 

Riding slowly into the market town three miles down the road early the following morning, he made arrangements for the grey to be returned to its owner and boarded the London stage. He wasted little time in the capital, merely visiting his bankers before taking the stage to Dover. Once there, he took the first packet to France. England holding nothing for him any more and he was determined to see what Europe had to offer. Bodie had been concerned about his lack of worldly experience. A grim set to his mouth and a wild glitter in his eyes, Doyle vowed to sample everything the world could offer a gentleman of substance. 

*** 

By the time Peter Doyle descended on the Hall Bodie had complete mastery over his emotions, his voice and manner betraying no more feeling than was proper regarding the abrupt departure of a house-guest. 

"That is all very well Mister Bodie but in the month since Raymond quit the Hall no one has set eyes on him. May I speak with you frankly?" 

Aware that Peter Doyle harboured the suspicion that he, for whatever reason, had murdered Doyle and disposed of his body, Bodie was too drunk to care. He had been imbibing too regularly for the fact to be apparent to anyone who did not know him intimately. 

"As you please, sir." His tone was bored and barely civil. 

"I understood you and Raymond to be on terms of the utmost cordiality." 

"That was my impression." Try as he might, bitterness betrayed him. 

"Ah. I feared you might be angry." 

"Let us say rather surprised," said Bodie with a brief flare of emotion. "I would have expected Ray to pay me the courtesy of bidding me farewell before he stole my favourite mount." 

His mouth thinning, Peter Doyle rose to his feet. "I see I am wasting my time here. I will naturally reimburse - " 

Giving a grimace Bodie put out a staying hand. "No! I beg your pardon, sir. I thought I had better control of my temper. A strong, and I believed, an enduring friendship had sprung up between Ray and myself. We parted on excellent terms, although I did not see him on the day in question, as you are already aware. Lest you doubt my probity, I have no doubt that the Squire will vouch for the fact that I spent the day in his company." 

With the grace to feel embarrassed, Peter Doyle waved a dismissing hand. "That will not be necessary. Can you think of any reason for Raymond to behave so?" 

"None," replied Bodie, staring at the fire-irons as the sense of loss and disbelief caught him anew because he had not drunk enough to deaden them. 

The older man's fierce stare eased as he reseated himself. "I never understood him," he murmured. "I have caused an extensive but discreet search to be made of the area lest he came to harm. No trace of him has been found." 

His eyes narrowing as he concentrated, for the first time Bodie began to take the older man's fears seriously. "One of my grooms saw him ride off. You may question him if you wish, although I fear he will be of little assistance to you." 

"I feel certain that you made all the proper enquiries. It was not my intention to infer - I am worried," admitted Peter Doyle simply. "As you know, Raymond was attacked prior to your rescuing him. I am concerned that he might have been tricked into leaving the Hall and murdered thereafter." 

"All the servants were questioned," offered Bodie, choosing not to add that Archie had performed that office, his master being too drunk to think of it. "No message was delivered, nor did we receive any visitors - save for Theo." 

"No communication has been received from Raymond. Have you heard from him?" 

Lost to unhappy thoughts, it was only with some effort that Bodie returned his attention to the older man. "No, save for the note he left." 

"Theodore made no mention of a note," said Peter Doyle sharply. 

"Probably because apart from thanking me for my hospitality it said nothing beyond the fact that Ray had decided to see something of the world, having grown tired of country life." Even now those few curt lines could make Bodie angry. It was preferable to the tearing sense of loss and hurt. 

His steepled fingers propped beneath his chin, Peter Doyle came to a decision. "I believe you are aware that Raymond and I were not always on the best of terms." 

"Ray intimated as much to me," Bodie agreed. 

"What I have to say is... difficult for me. While Raymond was naturally delighted to discover that his brother was alive, both Theo and I are afraid that his pride... Raymond had only just accustomed himself to his position as my heir. While, as a second son, his living will be comfortable, it cannot compare to his expectations as my heir." 

Bodie straightened in his chair, the beginning of an incredulous anger stirring beneath his surface calm. "You believe Ray left because his pride had been bruised?" 

"Simply put but essentially correct. His formative years could have been easier. Sometimes pride was all that was left to him." 

"Then I trust it will sustain him now. My apologies, sir, I do not wish to appear unfeeling but your son is a man grown and has demonstrated himself to be more than capable of handling his own affairs. I trust his bruised pride will assuage itself, but fail to see how I may help you." 

The older man's stare held a disconcerting shrewdness. "Perhaps Raymond's is not the only pride to have been bruised," he murmured speculatively. 

Bodie elected not to hear him. Aloof but courteous he made it clear that he wished his uninvited guest gone. 

Unable to blame him given the circumstances, Peter Doyle took his leave. Despite the fact he had gained no further news regarding his son's welfare or whereabouts he felt strangely confident that Raymond was alive. 

It was a confidence which was borne out when Doyle continued to draw on his allowance. Within a few months, members of the ton returning from Europe brought tales of a wild young Englishman who was making his name notorious, first in Paris, then Vienna, Rome and finally staid Brussels. Telling himself that every young buck must sow a few wild oats, Peter Doyle ensured his son's allowance was increased and sat back to weather the gossip which spread about the son few in polite society had realised he possessed.


	10. Chapter 10

TEN 

_The more I see of the world, the more I am dissatisfied with it..._

 

Duly arrived in London, Doyle realised that his reputation had preceded him; he wasted little time in providing evidence that rumour had not lied. Hiring chambers, he set about discovering what diversions were available to a man who had spent the last eighteen months indulging in every excess the capitals of Europe could offer. 

Stubbornly determined to prove that his memories meant nothing to him, he had made a conscious decision to return to England. Indeed, it might be said that he flaunted his arrival in polite society, having decided it was time he faced the ghosts he had carried around Europe - an excess load he could not rid himself of. 

That he was bored with gambling hells, ludicrous wagers, opera dancers and irresponsible young men with nothing better to do than follow his lead was something he chose not to admit. In just under twelve months he would reach his twenty-fifth birthday, upon which anniversary he would inherit the estate bequeathed him by his grandmother. His one wish had been to retire to his estate and bury himself in country matters but the location of the estate made that impossible. It seemed ironic that country living should be out of reach when he had finally admitted his preference for such a life. Doyle know that his reputation was such that none of his many acquaintances would have believed the truth had he voiced it. While on amicable terms with many, he had taken some pains to ensure that no one else should be in a position to gain emotional ascendancy over him since the night Bodie had shattered his happiness. Now there was no one who could claim with any degree of truth to know his inmost heart. Strive as he might to fill the lonely hours, some memories refused to be repressed; indeed, their power only grew as he made his mark in the wilder elements of society. 

*** 

"I hear Mister Doyle's back in England," remarked Archie out of the blue one evening as he handed his master a fresh cravat. 

His face betraying no emotion, Bodie's gaze rested on his henchman's mirrored face. "You've been reading my correspondence again," he said with resignation, his fingers never pausing as he arranged the linen at his throat. 

"Matter of havin' tae. I'd be old an' grey afore you saw fit tae tell me anything," replied the Scot dourly. "Ye did not mention that his da was writing ye." 

"Oddly enough it didn't occur to me that the identity of my correspondents was any of your business," said Bodie dryly. 

Archie, however, was unsnubbable. "It's been a while since you've been tae London," he remarked, easing his master into his jacket. 

Turning slightly, Bodie stared at him. "Why the devil should I wish to go there?" 

"Tae meet wi' old friends and enjoy a little high livin'. Ye've been mortal quiet these last few months. Happen ye'll hae matters ye wish tae discuss wi' Mister Doyle, too. Recompense for yon grey he stole when he left for one," added Archie artfully. While he had not approved of his master sodden with drink, he approved of the man sinking into sober and premature middle age even less. It had been a long time since he had seen his master display a spontaneous burst of emotion, or betray any interest beyond the narrow confines of the estate. 

"Perhaps," said Bodie noncommittally as he adjusted his cuffs. But the seed had been sown, Archie having presented him with the face-saving excuse for seeking Doyle out that he had been searching for since he had received Peter Doyle's last communication. 

*** 

 

"Raymond! At last! I declare if you aren't the most elusive man in London." 

Turning with reluctance, Doyle met the warm smile offered to him with a chilly courtesy, wanting to hate the man who had destroyed his dreams for the future. 

"Theo," he acknowledged, his tone barely civil. "I did not look to see you in town. Is your stay to be of a long duration?" 

"Certainly," said Theo, strolling down St. James's at his brother's side when he showed no sign of stopping. "We have taken over the family house in Grosvenor Square. Annaliese and m'father... " He shrugged, his perplexity obvious. "I thought they would deal famously together." 

Against his will Doyle felt his mouth twitch. As well to hate the sun for shining as Theo for being himself. "You would. Is your wife well?" he added, because good-breeding demanded a show of interest. 

"Increasing again - no doubt you heard from the Old Man that our first was a girl - and happy as a lark," Theo reported complacently, before he shot his companion a quick side-on glance, disconcerted by Doyle's lack of warmth. "I wondered if I had done anything to offend you, don't you know." 

"How could you?" Doyle returned lightly, drawing the other man back as a high-perch phaeton pulled up beside them, spilling two bucks onto the pavement amidst much merriment. 

"Shockin' display," noted Theo dispassionately. "Young cubs. Ham-fisted, at that. Well, I am glad to hear you say I have not. But when you quit the Hall so abruptly - " 

Doyle maintained an unhelpful silence, his stride lengthening. Theo struggled, both to keep pace with him and to maintain the conversational burden. "It occurred to me that you might feel I had served you ill, turning up the way I did. You had a time of it with Consuela. I know now that I hadn't heard the half of it. And Father - "

" - does not change," interrupted Doyle. 

"You have heard from him?" 

"I received a missive from him only the other week." 

"Ah," said Theo wisely. "He is not best pleased at some of the rumours reaching Crenley. You should count yourself fortunate he is laid low with an attack of gout or I have no doubt that he would have come to town to take you to task. You cannot have believed that your telling him to tend to his business and leave you to yours would settle matters between you?" 

"I neither know nor care. His parental concern comes late in the day." 

"As I recall you told him that, too. I haven't seen him so enraged since Hector - you'll recall he's our youngest boy - tried out his peashooter in the stable yard and caused Father to be unseated," said Theo with a grin. 

"I trust nothing more than our sire's dignity was bruised," replied Doyle, betraying no sign of a thaw. 

"It was not, although I had the devil's own job smoothing him down. But that isn't what I wanted to see you about. Papa's concern for your welfare is quite genuine." 

Doyle gave a uninterested shrug. "That is his privilege. I can confirm he has some grounds for his current disapproval." 

"I have no doubts on that score. By all accounts you've sown wild oats in plenty. That little filly I glimpsed on your arm the other evening for instance. I'll wager she's costing you a pretty penny. But it won't do, Raymond. You'll never be permitted to marry the chit." 

Doyle gave a humourless crack of laughter. "Have you lost your wits? I've no intention of finding myself leg-shackled." 

"I can see it is time I took you in hand," remarked Theo with a trace of severity. "By the by, a gentleman doesn't go round giving ladies of quality a slip on the shoulder either. The Maudsley chit," he prompted when Doyle gave him a look of incomprehension. 

"Which one is she? Oh, the brunette with the simper. I'm not yet of an age where I'm interested in robbing the schoolroom. Besides, as our father would be only too pleased to tell you, I am no gentleman. And if you are minded to give me a lecture, I suggest you first examine your own conduct, brother mine. I am quite capable of steering my own affairs without your assistance. Do I make myself clear?" 

Theo gave an unimpressed grunt. "That look might frighten those who don't know any better, I'm your brother. What is amiss? It's obvious you aren't happy." 

Disconcerted by that unexpected shrewdness Doyle shook his head. "You've changed," he said baldly. 

"I have a family to think of. Responsibilities. I might not be a downy one like you but I'm not the fool you take me for." 

Doyle had the grace to look self-conscious. "I - " 

"You need not trouble to deny it," continued Theo without resentment. "Even when you were ten years old you would sometimes give me a look which made me yearn to give you a good thrashing. But you received enough of those from others. You've been plunging deep - and in the wrong company. That must stop. Saltash is a damned loose screw. His reputation is such that it must sully those who keep company with him, though Lord knows why you should wish to. And as for the rumours concerning the part you played in Fordingham's death. There is the family name to think of after all." 

Doyle's mouth thinned as he prepared to annihilate such presumption. 

"And don't get on your high horse with me," said Theo placidly. "Damn it, do you imagine I enjoy hearing such gossip about my own brother bandied around the clubs? That tongue of yours has earned you enemies in plenty. Half the houses in London would not permit you entry." 

"You think not?" said Doyle with an unpleasant smile. "I am admitted, brother mine, if for no other reason than curiosity about Peter Doyle's second son." 

"Well, if your aim was to set Society on its heels you have made a splendid job of it. But I wonder that you are so easily entertained. Look at you. You're no more than half sober now. I know you did not have much of a life at Crenley, and perhaps I did not do all I ought. I've always liked a quiet life, you see." 

"I should never have guessed," said Doyle, laughing despite himself. "Your family has been - " 

" - the making of me," completed Theo without resentment. "I know. It is Annaliese's doing. She's a wonderful woman. But I forget, you have not had the pleasure of meeting her. That must be remedied and the sooner the better. We are situated only ten minutes away. Come and dine with us this evening." 

About to reject the offer, Doyle recognised the worried affection on his brother's face and heard himself stammering feeble excuses. "But I am hardly dressed - " He gestured to his day clothes. 

"Nonsense. There is no need to stand on formality with us," said Theo heartily, secretly appalled at the signs of dissipation their months apart had left on his brother's face. 

Theo's description of his spouse hardly helpful in trying to form a picture of her, and his interest minimal at best, Doyle was pleasantly surprised by Annaliese. He found his new sister to be perfectly amicable, if a trifle insipid for his taste. That she adored her handsome husband was beyond doubt. Before the end of the meal Doyle was heartily tired of hearing ‘Theo says’ prefacing her every opinion. She had the valuable habit of deferring to her husband's judgement in every particular, her dependence turning Theo into a pattern card of decisiveness and all the manly virtues. 

Submerged in the details of domesticity with which the happy couple regaled him, Doyle sat in a state of torpidity which bordered on numbness, depressingly certain that Annaliese would be adding to the Doyle line with an annual regularity. Listening to them, he could hardly credit that Bodie had given his heart to his brother, or that Theo would allow his sense of propriety to be so overset that he would court disaster by allowing himself to bed with never mind to love, another man. But having witnessed Bodie's reaction to Theo's resurrection, the scene was imprinted on Doyle's brain. Whatever Theo's feelings for Bodie might be now, he and Bodie had been lovers and Bodie had turned his attentions to the second brother when the first was no longer available. It required more effort for Doyle to recall his sense of bitterness over that betrayal, his revulsion blunted by months of loneliness. 

"... you agree?" 

Recalled to the present and feeling obscurely ashamed that he was repaying their hospitality so poorly, Doyle set about displaying the attributes of a perfect guest, not least by knowing when to make his farewells. Returning to his rooms to change, he went in search of any diversion which would quash the memories which meeting Theo had stirred. 

Taken up by a group of acquaintances, Doyle joined them on their excursion to Tothill Fields. Sat amongst the raucous crowd watching a cock-fight, he was just sober enough to feel disgust for the raw blood-lust of those around him. The air was heavy with the stench of tallow, sweat, urine, blood and sawdust and finally he could stand it no more, slipping out before he could be waylaid. Desperately homesick for sweet country air, stillness and the pleasure of living and working on the land, he set off for less noisome climes on foot. His head spinning after the gin he had been unwise enough to drink, he refused to admit that he would give all he possessed to be living quietly in the country with Bodie. 

The attack, when it came, took him by surprise. On this occasion his attackers faced a man with more skills than those of a stable-lad. Despatching one of the ruffians with his sword stick, Doyle stalked his second assailant with grim purpose, unsurprised when the man turned tail and ran for his life. Aware that this was not an area in which anyone as well-dressed as he should lightly venture he did not linger, the remainder of his journey passing without incident. But the conviction that he was being watched remained long after he had achieved the safety of his rooms. 

***   
Having disposed of his town house after his previous visit to London, Bodie made himself comfortable in the rooms Archie found for them and slipped effortlessly back into the mainstream of society. Time having blurred the sharp bitterness he had felt on his return to civilian life, it required little effort on his part. Warmed by his reception, he greeted old friends with genuine pleasure. 

It was not long before he had heard all the gossip there was to hear. Peter Doyle's son featured prominently in such talk, and not just because of the name he bore. If only half Doyle's reported activities were based on fact Bodie could only admire his stamina; he seemed to have packed an inordinate amount into the eighteen months they had been apart, little of it admirable. 

Bodie made no effort to seek out Doyle. Away from the familiar cocoon of the Hall all the emotions he had repressed were too close to the surface. Because it would be disquieting to acknowledge how much anger remained Bodie preferred to pretend it did not exist. 

Entering _Brooks's_ late one evening he was greeted by Declan O'Hara, who was still celebrating the birth of his first child, a healthy son. 

"Though 'tis the bane of Emma's life that the brat should have my hair." 

"I don't recall hearing that detail before," drawled Charles Atlee to Bodie. 

O'Hara gave a good-natured grin, accustomed to being the butt of his friends, who found the picture of the ex-reprobate enjoying the sobriety of marriage exquisitely humorous. "If I'm borin' ye ..." he began.

"You are, you were and I suspect you will continue to do so in the foreseeable future," said Atlee unkindly. 

"You're a cruel man, Charles m'boy. Lord, the time! I must away. Bodie, you'll meet me tomorrow at Tattersall's? There's a pair of chestnuts I mean to break your heart over." 

"I shall be there," Bodie promised him, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Dice or cards?" he said to Atlee as O'Hara hurried away. 

"The former I think." 

In no hurry, they strolled through rooms thronging with members and deft servants, growing accustomed to the thick atmosphere in which the smell of smoke from the many wax candles, rich food and the press of bodies mingled with unhappy results. One room proved to be more crowded than others, figures around one particular table four and five deep. 

"What have we here?" wondered Bodie lazily. 

"I would hazard a wager," said Atlee. "With Raymond Doyle setting the pace unless I miss my guess. You've heard me speak of him?" 

"And always with disapproval," confirmed Bodie, taking a fortifying sip of wine before strolling over to a position which gave him a view of the players. 

Skilled in the art of unobtrusive surveillance he studied Doyle from the tips of his deft, long-fingered hands to the glittering eyes, which bore small lines around them that one might expect to find on a man ten years his senior. All the tales Bodie had heard mentioned the dissipation, he saw nothing to deny them. While far from the conventional good-looks approved by Society, the sensuality of Doyle's face and wiry form was unmistakable. Infuriated by his own lack of immunity, Bodie continued his surveillance, his gaze more critical now. 

His eyes betraying his sleepless state, his broken cheekbone very much in evidence from this angle, the pallor of Doyle's face was accentuated by the severe cut of his jacket, the blue so deep that it appeared black in some lights. His dress the epitome of expensive simplicity, he wore no adornment, save for a single gold fob. His linen impeccable, only his hair would have met with the disgraced Beau's disapproval. While undoubtedly windswept, it curled more and was far longer than fashion dictated. To Bodie's amusement there were others who had taken up what they obviously regarded as the latest mode with less happy results. 

Fragments of overheard conversation made it obvious that Doyle had been enjoying his customary good fortune. Comments around the table were good natured, save for the man sitting opposite Doyle. His florid face heavily jowled, his scowl deepened as his losses increased. 

"Ten to one it ends in trouble," Atlee murmured to Bodie. 

Bodie spared him a look of reproof. "Five to four. I remember Saltash of old. But I see another acquaintance at the table." Before Atlee could comment he had drifted around the crowd, easing himself through the bystanders until he stood close to his ex¬lover's shoulder. 

"Good evening, Mister Doyle. I felt sure we would meet again one day." Prepared for this meeting as Doyle was not, it was with some satisfaction that Bodie noted the other man's barely perceptible stiffening and the way his fingers tightened over his glass before they relaxed and he looked up. 

"Mister Bodie," acknowledged Doyle, his face wiped clean of emotion. 

"You are old friends!" exclaimed Drew Preston, the exceedingly handsome young man who stood at Doyle's other shoulder. 

"Acquaintances," Bodie corrected. 

Doyle ignored the interruption, lounging back in his chair. "Surely more than that, sir. Is your stay in town to be a protracted one?" 

"I doubt it. There is little to attract me here." Bodie's gaze flicked over the seated man, making it clear he found him wanting. "As I believe I mentioned to you on one occasion, I am a country mouse at heart. You, I understand, prefer more ... variety." His tone just missed being insulting. 

While his eyes narrowed, Doyle did no more than smile and salute Bodie with his glass before turning back to the table. Making his apologies to those awaiting him, he stared blindly at the dice, able to see nothing but the thinly disguised contempt on Bodie's face. While he covered his preoccupation, he lost the that game and the next, thus increasing the tension in the spectators, most of whom had wagered on another outcome entirely. 

Drawing his friend away, Atlee lost his languid air. "If you are acquainted with Raymond Doyle you will be aware that he possesses a damned unpleasant tongue. The young fool has been called out once already." 

"How enterprising of him. And the outcome?" 

"What you would imagine. Have you seen him at the shooting gallery? It is an edifying sight. He winged young Davies neat as you please, and that with a bullet ruffling his curls. Not that Davies intended a killing shot, you understand. Between his intake of brandy, nerves and natural incompetence he could stand six feet from the side of a barn and miss. The sooner Doyle tires of London the better. The play is always devilish deep when he is around." 

"I don't recall it ever being anything else," said Bodie with truth. "You are very severe. Have you taken him in dislike?" 

"I have suffered too many young fools who have never known a moment's - Lord, I sound like m'father," Atlee realised, laughing at himself. 

"A trifle." Steering their conversation to the safer topics of family and mutual acquaintances, Bodie nodded to an empty table at which they played piquet for stakes which most present would have considered derisory. 

"You know that they say it was his losses at the tables which led Fordingham to shoot himself," said Atlee abruptly. 

"I heard something of the kind. Was anything left for his family?" 

Atlee grimaced. "I doubt it, knowing Fordingham. And unless I miss my guess most of it landed in Doyle's pockets." 

Unable to reconcile any of what he had heard with the man he had shared his home and heart with for close on five months, Bodie took a calming sip of wine. "Doyle is hardly to blame for the fact Fordingham was an inveterate gamester. Or are you suggesting some impropriety in the play?" His tone had sharpened. 

"Good Lord, no! Nothing like that!" said Atlee, shocked. "But Doyle is wild and there are too many ready to follow his lead."

Bodie gave his friend a puzzled glance. "You are very severe." 

"Ignore me. I have had my fill of London." 

Having kept himself abreast of all the gossip and not merely that which touched Doyle, Bodie's expression softened. "Am I to take it that your suit does not prosper. Charles, if there - " 

"There isn't. I know you mean well but - Damn it, I've no wish to sit here watching Doyle losing a fortune. I'm away. There is no need for you to accompany me," Atlee added sharply. 

"True, but I have some excellent brandy in my chambers if you would care to - " 

"Lead me to it," said Atlee, a hint of desperation in his voice. 

His interest in Doyle set aside, Bodie directed his attention to gently pumping his friend. Learning that it was Miss Edwards, rather than her father, who had declined Atlee's suit, it was Bodie's belief that at seventeen the chit probably deemed it her duty to reject her suitor's first proposal. Resigning himself to a few day's tedium while he made the lady's acquaintance, Bodie was certain all was not lost. By the time he had delivered Atlee into the care of his valet he trusted he had managed to convince his friend of as much. 

 

*** 

 

Entering the club, Bodie found himself caught up in a knot of excited young men, one of whom was exuberantly regaling his adventures. 

"It is a scandal that these fellows are permitted to prey upon unwary travellers. Though I cannot deny it was partly my fault for neglecting to replace my pistols. If it was not for Doyle I would be worm's meat." 

"I wonder if he is to be congratulated," mused Preston, dancing back out of his friend's reach. "Hold fire, Lucien and tell us exactly what happened." 

"Why, we were waylaid by four ruffians, and a driving whip is not much comfort against pistols. We had tossed down our valuables when that damn gelding of mine took fright as a rabbit bolted from the gorse. One of the robbers opened fire. Raymond lashed out with the whip and used the advantage he had gained to grab the reins and set off at a cracking pace. I've never known my pair to run so well. Though if it had not been for our overtaking the London stage I fear the men must have caught us. I wish I could remember more of what occurred but while Raymond knocked me to one side, the bullet still nicked me. I spent much of the journey in a half-swoon," added Lucien ruefully, gesturing to the sling he wore. 

"It seems we must thank Raymond after all," said one of the sobered group. 

"The men gave chase?" said Bodie. 

"I should say they did. That is strange, isn't it," realised Lucien. 

"Very," said Bodie dryly, but sotto voce, having no wish to share the unpleasant suspicion which was forming. 

"Where is Raymond?" asked one of the group. 

"I have no idea. He mentioned having another engagement when we parted."

"Perhaps he will be able to tell us more," remarked Bodie. 

Several of those in the group smiled at that. "If we depended on Doyle for news of his exploits we should have a long wait," explained Lucien. "But in this case I can vouch for the fact I owe him my life." 

"Then let's drink to that," said Crawley. "This is Raymond's third adventure in the space of two weeks." 

Having been on the point of excusing himself, Bodie paused, his interest sharpened. "You must tell us more, Robert." 

Needing no encouragement either to talk or to imbibe, Crawley told the group what little he knew; that Doyle had been attacked by Mohocks in an insalubrious area, only to find himself in the same predicament yards from his chambers two nights later. "And to cap it all, the poor devil deals with them and arrives home to find that his manservant has run off," he ended. "You should meet his replacement." 

Unsurprised, Bodie listened as the conversation turned to the difficult task of finding good servants, particularly that most delicate of positions, a valet. Thoughtfully sipping his wine, he allowed the conversation to meander around him, not as sanguine as Doyle's peers about the series of misfortunes which had befallen Doyle. Knowing it was not a matter he could discuss with Doyle himself, he sought out Theo Doyle the following day. 

"Does Raymond have any enemies?" said Theo, laughing. "Any number of them, I would imagine." His smile faded when Bodie did not respond in kind. "You are serious, aren't you." 

"Very. As you may recall, when first I met him he had been attacked and left for dead by footpads hired by his stepmother. Now I learn that he has been attacked three times in two weeks, once almost on his own doorstep. I mistrust that kind of coincidence." 

"As do I," admitted Theo. "But our step-mamma is safely tucked away where she can do no harm to anyone." 

"You are certain of that?" 

Theo blinked, then nodded as he recognised the importance of the enquiry. "I will make it my business to find out. What does Raymond have to say about it?" 

I have not sought to discuss the matter with him. You will recall that we are not on the most amicable of terms." 

"Yes, and that is something else I do not pretend to understand. But I presume the pair of you know what you are about," added Theo with haste when he saw the unfriendly glint in Bodie's eye. "As for the other matter, you'd best leave it with me. I shall have a word with Raymond." 

"I will not claim I understand his every action, but has he been in the habit of confiding in you when he is in difficulty?" 

Pausing in the act of refilling Bodie's glass, Theo slowly set the decanter down. "No," he admitted wryly. "Rather the opposite, in fact. Even as a boy he kept his troubles to himself. Damn it, Bodie. If you are correct, who can be behind this? And why?" 

"I have no idea. But I intend to take steps to find out on both counts." 

"You are going to a great deal of trouble on my brother's behalf. I doubt if he will thank you for it." 

Bodie gave a wry smile. "I have no such doubts. He would not. But there is no necessity for him to learn of my interest, is there?" 

"Are you insinuating that I cannot hold my tongue?" asked Theo with a trace of indignation. 

Relaxing, Bodie grinned at him. "How long have we known each other?" 

"Too long by half. Very well, I shall say nothing. Though if his recent behaviour is any indication, Raymond has done nothing to deserve such a steadfast friend as yourself." 

Knowing he must distract the other man, Bodie said lightly, "You give me more credit than I deserve. I enjoy solving mysteries." 

 

*** 

 

In no doubt by this time that he was being stalked, but with no idea by whom or why, Doyle kept his own counsel and took what precautions he could. With no desire to communicate with his sire, whose every letter echoed with parental disapproval, he contrived to establish that his stepmother remained in seclusion at the Dower House, to all intents and purposes locked away from the world. It took a little longer to ascertain the whereabouts of his two stepbrothers. Their debts having mounted to alarming levels, they had fled from angry tradesmen to Europe. Rumour had James deeply embroiled with an Austrian diplomat's wife while John was fortune-hunting amongst the flower of Belgian maidenhood, obviously inspired by the success of Theo's marriage. 

With no obvious suspects left Doyle became increasingly edgy, his feeling of isolation increasing as he met the smiling faces of his friends and could not help but wonder if one of them was behind the attacks. It was impossible to trust anyone enough to confide in them, even if it had been his habit to take his troubles to others. But it was a lonely feeling, the more so because memory kept reminding him of the one man he had been able to trust. 

Doyle might have found the strain easier to bear but for Bodie's presence. He was disconcerted by the frequency with which they encountered each other. Each such occasion angered Doyle because of the hope it stirred quite as much as it irritated him because he could not ignore the other man's silent and disapproving presence. Even more galling was the fact he had to sit back and witness the easy friendship which existed between his brother and his erstwhile lover, Doyle seeing the two men together with a frequency he found damnable. What was worse was the fact that the more he saw them together, the harder he found it to believe that they had ever been intimate. 

The joint strains of being the hunted and the wronged lover beginning to tell on him, Doyle's patience grew thinner, his excesses a little wilder. But opera dancers, no matter how accommodating, were no substitute for the body he wanted most. Persuading himself that a change of gender and some of the sweet man flesh he had tried to lose himself in whilst in Europe would resolve his problem, Doyle visited one of the discreet brothels which flourished. He left after ten minutes, desire dead in him. 

*** 

 

Having selected a table from which he could keep an eye on Doyle while remaining unobserved himself, Bodie idly tossed the dice while trying to bolster Charles Atlee's sagging morale. 

"I have taken some pains to meet Miss Edwards - " 

"So I heard." Atlee stared mournfully into his wine. 

"You could not believe I was attempting to cut you out?" said Bodie with exasperation. 

"No, of course not. Not - " 

"Or that Miss Edwards could betray any partiality to another while her affections are engaged," added Bodie, ruthlessly interrupting his friend, having wasted all the time he was prepared to with the sweet-natured but dull Miss Edwards. 

Atlee's head shot up. "To whom?" he demanded fiercely. 

Bodie sighed. "Do not be more of a fool than you can help. To you, of course. 'Tis my belief she is pining for you. Pride is all very well, but it could not hurt to call upon her." 

Miraculously restored to his usual good humour, Atlee beamed at him. "You are a genius!" 

"No, merely - " 

The sound of a violently raised voice caused them both to turn. 

"Saltash! Ah! The damned fool for rising to his bait," Atlee added, as Doyle tossed the dregs of his wine into the face being thrust at him. 

Saltash's demand for satisfaction carried throughout the room, Doyle's response no further than to those around them. His face flushed a deeper shade of puce than was usual, Saltash muttered something which caused Doyle to half-rise before reseating himself with a comment which made those around him laugh and Saltash, his expression murderous, barrel his way through the crowd. As he left, an excited babble of voice swept through the room. 

Ignoring the excitement Doyle picked up the dice and called for a fresh glass. 

"No doubt we shall hear the details soon enough," remarked Bodie with a placidity he was far from feeling. 

"The tale changing with each recital," added Atlee, gesturing to draw Bodie's attention to a conversation taking place only a few feet away from him. 

"... though it's damned unsporting of Saltash to select swords," complained a young buck to his friend, pausing to take a pinch of snuff, a stained nostril, forefinger and thumb betraying his overindulgence in the habit. 

"No more than could be expected of him. I have never understood why he is accepted in society, let alone how he and Doyle came to be playing at the same table. But you cannot blame Saltash for his choice of weapon. We have both seen Doyle with a pistol." 

"That's as maybe. There is no denying Saltash's mastery with a blade. They say he killed his man a few years back." 

"Yes? I had not heard. No matter. A pony says Doyle pinks him." 

"Done!" said his companion instantly. 

As the pair moved away, gesturing for a waiter to bring the book the club maintained to record the wagers of members, Bodie muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath. 

Atlee gave him a grin in which understanding and malice were mingled. "Feeling the weight of your years?"

"We were never that green." 

Atlee snorted. "It would be a public service if someone were to dispose of Saltash, although I do not rate Doyle's chances, I must confess. Oh Lord!" he added with amusement. "While I cannot like Doyle, one has to admire his style on occasion." 

"What has occurred now?" asked Bodie, refusing to turn and betray the vulgar curiosity he felt. 

"Nothing," gurgled Atlee, "save that Doyle has offered himself as one of the signatories to witness young Barstead's wager. The expression on the latter's face was priceless." Giving a yawn, Atlee followed it with an apologetic grimace. "I believe I will make an early night of it," he announced, adding when Bodie raised a questioning eyebrow, "I thought I might ride out early tomorrow morning." 

"Ah," said Bodie with a lightness he was far from feeling. "I believe Miss Edwards is often to be found riding in the Park." 

Choosing to ignore the provocation of that remark, Atlee rose to his feet. "But what of you?" 

"Oh, I believe I shall remain a while yet," said Bodie easily. 

It was not a difficult task to keep an unobtrusive eye on Doyle's table and Bodie did so with a hunger which disgusted him even while he could not bring himself to stop. His mood was not eased when he appreciated the quantity of liquor Doyle was imbibing for a man with a dawn meeting ahead of him. But Bodie knew he could not intervene and left when he could bear to watch no more. 

 

Arriving back at his rooms around four in the morning, Bodie paused on the top step to stare up at the sky, where heavy clouds threatened rain. Hoping there would be deluge enough to cool the hot tempers of the combatants, he stumbled to bed, too preoccupied to react to Archie's anxious scolding. 

*** 

 

Oversleeping, it was close to noon when Bodie left the house, anxious to hear how Doyle had fared. Meeting O'Hara, it was with intense frustration that he realised his friend was too engrossed in his own affairs to have heard of the duel, never mind know of its outcome. Giving an excellent impression of one listening intently to what he was being told, Bodie suddenly wished himself back at the Hall. All his friends were wed, or on the brink of matrimony; while their form of domesticity held no appeal for him, he was conscious of a leaden ache when he recalled the months he and Doyle had shared, wishing that he knew what could have given Doyle such a distaste of him. 

Impatient with his romanticism for imagining Doyle would share his happy memories, he finally escaped from O'Hara and headed for his club where he could be sure of hearing the latest on dits. 

The inclement weather seemed to have kept most people away. His drink untouched, his unseeing gaze on the heavy rain streaking the window-pane, Bodie looked up as a beaming Atlee settled opposite him. 

"You were quite right," Atlee announced. 

"I usually am. What about in particular?" asked Bodie with scant interest. 

"I am to form one of Amy's party when they attend the Cavandish ball tonight."

"Then you'd best sober yourself, unless you believe the haggard look will favour your suit," Bodie advised him. 

"Do I look so bad?" asked Atlee with a worried frown. 

Bodie's expression softened. Since losing his own heart he had become more tolerant of the foibles of others similarly afflicted. "Far from it. Did you contrive to speak with Miss Edwards alone?" 

"Not contrive, but by sheer good fortune we happened to meet and - What is so amusing, pray?" 

Sobering, Bodie shook his head. "You poor simpleton. Good fortune will have had little to do with it. It is obvious you have no sisters. Is all well?" he added in a different tone. 

A slow smile lit his companion's face. "It is my devout hope that you may expect to see an interesting announcement in _The Gazette_ within the next day or so." 

"Charles! I cannot tell you how delighted I am. I had a wager with myself that - " 

His spirits high for a man with an appalling head and only two hours' sleep, Atlee pulled a face as if despairing of his friend. "You would wager on the date of your own interment. By the by, you've heard that young Barstead lost his wager?" 

Bodie frowned. 

"Don't you recall? Earlier this morning. He wagered a pony on Doyle pinking Saltash." 

"I have heard nothing," Bodie said, surprised by his calm tone when all he wanted to do was to shake the information from the other man. 

"Word has it that Saltash is already on his way to France." 

For a moment Bodie could say nothing, blood buzzing in his ears. "Is Doyle dead, then?" 

"What? No, though it is no thanks to Saltash. It is the most shocking thing I have heard. I had it from young Drew Preston, who acted as Doyle's second. The weather, as you may have noticed, is abominable. Saltash having declined to postpone the meeting, the parties were forced to wait for the rain to ease. When at last it did so, and before the formalities were complete, Doyle slipped - as you can imagine, the ground was in a devilish condition. Saltash went for him. If it wasn't for Doyle's reflexes he would be worm's meat. Naturally the seconds brought a halt to proceedings. Saltash claimed he believed Doyle to be attacking him. Can you credit it? I knew he was a damned loose screw but to attack a man in such a manner passes all bounds. I've always said there was bad blood in that family," Atlee added, with the satisfaction of one who has been proved right. "Naturally Saltash was advised not to linger." 

"What of Doyle?" 

"That hothead? I am told he laughed and invited Saltash to try his luck while his opponent was facing him. Saltash was not given the opportunity to take up the offer which, given that Doyle was bleeding like a stuck pig, is perhaps just as well." 

"He was injured?" said Bodie sharply. 

"A scratch, no more, I hear. It is Burn I feel for. The poor devil was inveigled into acting for Saltash, you know. Hell of a position to find yourself in. Doyle is entitled to seek satisfaction from him." 

"Is he likely to?" 

"No," said Atlee, shaking his head. "While I hear Doyle was white with rage, he vented none of it on poor Burn. And I must say, all credit to him, it appears he conducted himself well throughout." 

Bodie subdued a flare of anger. While he had no hesitation in castigating Doyle himself, he did not enjoy hearing others less well-informed enjoy the same luxury. "Did you expect him to behave in any other fashion?" 

"No, of course not," said Atlee vaguely, trying to concentrate on the current topic of conversation rather than his forthcoming meeting with Miss Edwards. "Forgive me, my wits are wandering." 

"I cannot imagine who can be occupying your thoughts," said Bodie, recovering to salute his friend with his glass. Limp with relief, he listened with every appearance of interest to Atlee's eulogy about his loved one before making his escape. 

Discreet enquiries having elicited the information that Saltash's finances were at a low ebb, and having already gone to the trouble to ascertain Doyle's direction, Bodie set off for Doyle's chambers, knowing he dared not keep his suspicions to himself any longer. Besides, he wanted to assure himself that the other man was unharmed. 

To his frustration Bodie learnt that Doyle was not at home, his surly manservant having no idea and obviously little interest in when his master could be expected to return.


	11. Chapter 11

ELEVEN 

_... angry people are not always wise..._

 

Baulked of his prey, despite the fact he had no clear idea what he would do when he found him, Bodie began to hunt for Doyle in earnest, if discreetly, having no wish to make himself the laughing stock of London. He finally ran him to ground in a select hell off St. James's just before midnight. 

While his dress was impeccable, one glance was enough to confirm that whatever Doyle had been doing during the past forty-eight hours, sleep had not played a major part in his activities. 

Lounging back in his chair, Doyle carelessly scribbled out an IOU and tossed it across the table with a remark which drew sallies of laughter from those around him. Play was desultory, constantly being interrupted as men strolled over to speak with him; even more sedate members of the ton made a point of doing so, Doyle's behaviour after Saltash's dishonourable attack having won him approval where previously it had been withheld. 

Invited to join the group by Drew Preston, who had another engagement, Bodie took the vacated seat next to Doyle. 

A trace of hectic colour on his cheekbones, his eyes seeming to glitter in the candlelight, Doyle briefly acknowledged his presence, but his smile was mechanical, his expression wary. 

When another party of young bucks engaged him in conversation, Bodie heard the impatient sigh Doyle gave and wondered that no one else could see that the topic of the duel was one of which Doyle was heartily tired, his civil if abbreviated replies growing increasingly terse. 

Finally Doyle glanced up. "Gentlemen, a moment's indulgence. While I appreciate the concern for my well-being, as you can see I am unharmed. Indeed, the only threat to my health is ennui that the topic should be attracting so much attention." 

A sally of laughter greeted his announcement, through which a nervous voice made itself heard. 

"Mister Doyle, there was little opportunity to speak with you the other day. I wonder if I might have a moment of your time?" 

Recognising the speaker, a slight man in his early thirties, silence spread from those crowding the table until every eye in the room was on the group. 

"Mister Burn! Good morning, sir. Won't you join us?" Doyle invited, rising to his feet. Appreciating the courage it had taken to seek him out in so public a place, his smile was warm, with no indication that he wished the man in Jericho. 

"I have no wish to intrude upon - " 

"You do not. Will you take some wine?" Producing a reassuring patter of conversation, Doyle's manner made it plain that in his eyes Burn had no case to answer, and that the duel was the last topic of conversation he wished to discuss. In that he was unlucky, paying for his forbearance by having to endure the older man's earnest but sincere apologies for some thirty minutes, during which time Doyle added two more vowels to those already in the possession of Robert Crawley. 

"That was well done, Raymond," said Crawley in a quiet aside as a far happier looking Burn finally took his leave. 

Doyle gave him a disenchanted glance before announcing to the table at large, "If the name Saltash is raised again I shall not be responsible for the consequences. What a dull lot you are. Can you think of no other topic of conversation?" 

"It isn't like you to flinch from the public eye," said Crawley, his smile taking any possible sting from the words. 

"Deal the cards," Doyle advised him with a resigned grin. "Your run of luck must end soon." 

"Skill, Raymond. Skill." 

Hoots of derision met that claim from others around the table, before they idly began to offer diversions with which they could pass the time. Lacking inspiration or any lead from Doyle who seemed to have lost interest in his companions, one suggested a race, amidst loud groans at his lack of originality. 

"It would depend what manner of a race is proposed, surely," said Doyle when his opinion was sought. "A race through the streets of London might offer some entertainment." His expression was one in which innocence and mischief mingled. 

"It's an obstacle race you propose." 

"Exactly." 

"Are we to ride?" asked Lucien Hawksmoor. 

"Hardly. We use our phaetons, of course." 

"You're crazed! If we did not kill ourselves we could injure an innocent bystander." 

"Surely that depends on the skill of individual drivers." 

Hawksmoor eyed Doyle shrewdly. "You'll be using those mismatched nags of yours, I suppose?" 

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my dear. Naturally." 

Wagers were made even before the route had been argued over. It was agreed that the meeting should be held in two days' time to allow one of their party to make good a deficiency in his stables. 

"Bodie, I still seek revenge for my defeat of four years ago," said Crawley. "Shall you ride with us?" 

"Perhaps," said Bodie noncommittally, having lost his enthusiasm for such pursuits. 

"You do not care to put your skill to the test?" murmured Doyle as various conversations flowed around them. 

Bodie chose not to rise to the challenge. "I am content to know my own skills without needing to parade them to the world," he said mildly. 

"I trust this self-knowledge extends to your limitations." "It would be a foolish man who claimed to have none." 

Oblivious to subtle undercurrents, Crawley interrupted them. "Bodie, cease monopolising Raymond and tell me whether you ride with us? I had given up hope of tempting you back to the fleshpots. Dine with me tomorrow?" 

"I should be delighted to accept both invitations," said Bodie because he sensed it would irritate Doyle. Besides, he intended to ensure that at least one participant in the proposed race was both sober and alert for mischief. If anyone was to have the pleasure of breaking Doyle's neck he wanted it to be himself. 

Play resuming, Bodie gave little of his attention to the fall of the cards. Despite himself he was too aware of the man at his side. Drinking sparingly, his contempt grew for those who called themselves Doyle's friends and yet watched him drink himself glassy-eyed night after night. 

The hour was far advanced when Crawley yawned and threw in his hand. "I'm away," he announced with decision. "Raymond, leave with me before you beggar yourself." 

Ignoring the voices which joined in urging him to go home, Doyle laughed in their faces and called for more brandy. Having seen enough, Bodie made his excuses. His last view was that of Doyle squinting as he scrawled yet another IOU. 

His losses that night must have been prodigious. Unable to account for Doyle's driven behaviour, Bodie could not understand this predilection for the tables. He had seen enough gamesters to be able to recognise one; despite appearances to the contrary Doyle bore none of the signs. But if he persisted in his wilful foolishness there was every likelihood that he would ruin himself. It was the waste of a life which gnawed at him the most. To see Doyle now one would imagine he had neither a sensible thought in his head nor any emotion beyond the need to make mischief. Bodie had once been afraid that Doyle had experienced too little of what the world could offer to be happy with him. There could be little doubt that Doyle had more than made up for lost time. 

*** 

His speculations keeping sleep at bay, Bodie rose at an early hour, snapped Archie's head off and drank more ale at breakfast than was his habit. Just before ten he stalked out of the house, determined to have it out with Doyle once and for all. 

In no humour to suffer any set-back, it took him no more than a minute to convince Doyle's manservant that, his orders notwithstanding, he should admit this early morning caller. 

"But he's asleep." 

"Then I shall have the pleasure of waking him. I shall announce myself. Which is his room?" 

"Second on your right," said the valet with sour dislike. "But he gave strict - " 

"That will be all," dismissed Bodie, with a look which made it plain that the man would not last a day in his service. 

"Mister Doyle won't take kindly - Have it your own way," the man muttered as Bodie strode down the short hall. Caring nothing for what became of his master he went back to his mug of ale. 

Pausing outside Doyle's room, afraid of what scene of despair might greet him, Bodie took a deep breath before opening the door. 

The curtains drawn, the fire reduced to glowing ashes, he could see little. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of hot wax, where candles had been left to burn themselves out. Heading for the chink of light beneath the curtains, Bodie cursed as he stumbled over discarded clothing. Wrenching back the heavy velvet, he blinked as the brilliance of the winter's sun blinded him. 

None of this disturbed Doyle. Breathing heavily, his cheek buried in the pillows, his rump in the air, the bedclothes had slipped halfway to the floor. One arm overhung the mattress, a lax hand dangling just above the chamber pot, which was stuffed full of bank notes. 

A grim set to his face as he surveyed the scene, anger and contempt overtook Bodie's sense of relief. In some strange way he felt cheated that Doyle stood in no need of assistance. 

His peremptory tone failing to wake the sleeper, he tossed his hat, gloves and riding crop onto the foot of the bed and set about trying to make something of the fire. Even the clatter of the irons in the grate produced no more than an irritable wriggle and a mumbled curse before the even breathing resumed. 

Damn the man, would he never wake? thought Bodie, his hungry gaze fixed on the curve of one buttock exposed by the rumpled nightshirt. His body tightening, Bodie's only wish was to join the sleeper on the bed and wake him in the time honoured fashion. 

Unconsciously moving closer, he kicked an empty brandy bottle which had been lying on its side. It rolled to hit the chamber pot with a loud clang, bank notes shivering as their precarious balance was disturbed. Taking in the slovenly aspect of the room Bodie abruptly lost all patience. Snatching up his riding crop, he brought it down over the engagingly upraised rump. 

Doyle shot up the bed with a yelp. Trying to turn and rise at the same time he became entangled in the bedding and fell to the floor with a thump which seemed to shake the room. 

"What the fu - You!" One hand to his throbbing head, the other going to his smarting backside, Doyle quickly ceased to rub the afflicted area, his bloodshot eyes narrowing to outraged slits when he recognised the immaculate figure standing above him. "What the devil do you imagine you are about?" 

"It seemed the only method guaranteed to wake you from your alcoholic stupor," said Bodie with a biting contempt, tossing the crop away. While ashamed of his action, he had no intention of admitting as much. 

"And what makes you assume you have the right to question my behaviour?" His rise to the vertical far from dignified, Doyle caught hold of the nearest bedpost for support. His pride in tatters, a raging headache made coherent thought difficult. "Name your seconds, sir. I permit no one to - " 

"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Bodie. "If you imagine I am going to stand in a freezing field and wait for you to put a bullet in me you are much mistaken." 

"Swords, then, if the thought of my marksmanship frightens you so much." 

Bodie's mouth tightened but he said only, "Don't waste your breath on further insults. I will not meet you." He wished he could believe his temper would not betray him. 

"No? Then I shall have to change your mind for you. You have obviously rusticated in the country for too long if you imagine your behaviour is conduct becoming in a gentleman." 

"You are overfond of twitting me on my lack of honour. As I recall, the last occasion you did so I dealt with you without too much difficulty." 

"Try now," said Doyle with silken menace. 

It was all the invitation Bodie needed. 

With a drunkard's luck Doyle evaded the other man's blow only to trip on the bottle at his feet. His left arm taking the brunt of his fall, he gave a choked cry. A giddy nausea forced him to remain on his knees, his right hand clutching the injured area in a vain attempt to minimise the hurt. 

"Ray? Damn it, I know I did not touch you," said Bodie with irritable concern. 

Swaying as he resumed the vertical, Doyle slumped onto the edge of the bed, only then sparing him an out-of-focus glare. 

Watching the stain spreading on the arm of the nightshirt Doyle clasped, Bodie made an impatient sound. Brushing Doyle's hand out of the way, he tore the sleeve from wrist to shoulder, baring an angry-looking sword thrust which had sliced deep into the bicep. 

"And this, I suppose, is the scratch Saltash delivered? Good God! If you wish to risk losing that arm you are going the right way about it. Or are you so foxed you cannot recognise the signs of infection?" 

"It wasn't this bad yesterday," muttered Doyle. 

"You didn't have a fever then. This requires the attentions of a physician." 

Intent on examining the injury, Bodie leant over him, his scent and warmth filling Doyle's senses. His hands unsteady, a look of near desperation in his eyes, Doyle held a portion of the quilt between himself and the temptation to touch. Bodie was dressed in a deep blue riding jacket whose fit only accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, and skin-tight buckskins which moulded his calves and powerful thighs. Remembering their strength all too clearly, Doyle gave a convulsive swallow but could not look away, this opportunity to study Bodie too rare a luxury. Torn by conflicting emotions, his unwary heart twisted as he accepted that the other man's presence had lost none of its potency. Even this clinical contact was better than none. 

"Stay there," commanded Bodie, heading for the door, all his attention directed to the practical. 

His furious ringing, followed by a bellow, produced only a nervous scullery maid. With no great confidence in her abilities, Bodie went to investigate the whereabouts of the other servants. 

Disorientated after his rude awakening and the pain from the throbbing site of his wound, Doyle gazed blankly around the room. He stared at the chamber pot brimming with bank notes in surprise, unable to recall winning them. It hardly mattered. He had lost something of infinitely more value in Bodie's good opinion. 

It was hardly to be wondered at, given his behaviour. What was worse, he was sober enough to admit the mistake he had made all those months ago. The characters of Bodie and Theo made it inconceivable that they could ever have been lovers. It was natural for Bodie to greet with joy an old friend he had thought dead but Doyle had not been rational enough to reason thus at the time. His brother having been upheld as a pattern card by which he was constantly found lacking throughout his formative years, he had a deep sense of inferiority where Theo was concerned. That, coupled with Bodie's obvious affection for his unnamed dead lover, had combined to make him leap to the appalling conclusion he had. 

It was an error of gargantuan proportions, the measure of which Doyle was just beginning to appreciate. But he owed it to Bodie to tell him the truth, knowing enough of him to be certain that Bodie was merely biding his time before demanding such an explanation. Mentally cringing from that moment, Doyle knew that after his confession he would find himself meeting the other man, and with no possibility of deluding himself that he was the wronged party. 

The opening door caused Doyle to look up to find the subject of his thoughts returned. 

"Your valet having deigned to resume his duties, I've sent him for a doctor." 

"Thank you," said Doyle awkwardly, ashamed of the slovenly aspect of the room and his own disarray. 

"The girl downstairs is a halfwit. Your manservant a ..." 

"I know. But as I have no plans to remain in London beyond the end of the month, it matters little," said Doyle listlessly, trying to find the courage to make a clean breast of things. 

Sensitive to the other man's change of mood, Bodie's expression lost some of its severity. Drawing up a footstool, he sat opposite Doyle. "Where will you go? Back to Europe?" 

Their months apart a featureless void he had tried in vain to fill, Doyle shrugged. "I am not sure. Perhaps." 

"Your presence will be sadly missed," said Bodie, abruptly conscious that even this precarious contact was better than none. 

"But not, I think, by anyone of consequence," murmured Doyle, staring at his feet. 

"You do yourself an injustice," said Bodie after a moment. 

Doyle looked up, his expression one of bitter hopelessness. "That is one thing I rarely do." 

Trusting that he might receive an honest answer while Doyle's defences were down, Bodie was given a measure of hope that a reconciliation might be possible by the expression he had glimpsed on the other man's face. "Why did you leave so abruptly?" 

Although the question had been expected, hearing it voiced made Doyle flinch. "I made a mistake." 

"We are both agreed on that point," retorted Bodie with asperity. "That does not answer my question. I believe I have the right to know." 

"Yes," agreed Doyle, his gaze dropping to his clasped hands. He gave a halting explanation of how the misunderstanding had arisen, painfully admitting his feelings of jealousy and inadequacy and the revulsion which had followed them. His voice trailed off when he saw comprehension dawn on Bodie's face, the other man rocketing away from him with an explosive sound anger. 

"Should I be flattered at your appraisal of my character? What a charming picture you paint of me, not to mention your brother." Breaking off what he had been about to add, Bodie remained a safe distance from Doyle, so angry he was shaking. Taking several deep breaths, he continued, "By God, I'm tempted to give you the lesson you richly deserve. How dared you judge me by the dubious standards of behaviour you adopt." 

Doyle forced himself to meet that blazing stare, dully aware of the measure of the insult he had inflicted. He did not trust his clumsy tongue to do anything but compound the felony. 

"I deeply regret - " 

"Is that what you believe I wish to hear?" demanded Bodie with a savage contempt. "How little you understand me - or cared to." The sound of footsteps caused him to wheel away. "That will be the doctor. Good day, sir." He gestured to Doyle. "Your patient. If you will forgive me I have pressing business elsewhere." 

Numb, Doyle watched Bodie stalk out of his life. His attention remained on the empty doorway until the fussy preparations of the physician recalled him to the present.

His experience of doctors limited in the extreme, Doyle suffered the man's ministrations as best he could. His head spinning after he had been bled, the pulsing agony of his heavily bandaged arm left him in no case to wonder at the older man's nervous haste as he virtually bolted from the room. Nor did Doyle know that within thirty minutes of the doctor's departure the only servant left to him was the witless scullery maid. 

The rest of the day passed in a blur of pain and mounting fever, his arm feeling as if acid were eating into the raw flesh. Sliding in and out of consciousness, Doyle was only vaguely aware of the increased chill in the room. When, desperate for relief from the pain, he tried to find the servants who failed to answer the bell, he collapsed. 

*** 

 

Returning to his rooms in as black a rage as Archie had ever seen him, Bodie maintained a dangerous silence all evening. The following morning he announced that he was returning to the Hall. As his expression did not encourage questions, let alone invite comment, Archie hastily packed a small bag of necessities and hurried after his master, scattering orders like confetti to those servants left behind. 

Journeying with uncomfortable speed through the sodden countryside, the loss of a wheel left the coach stranded six miles from the nearest inn. Having had time to calm down, Bodie took the news philosophically. Wrapping himself in his greatcoat, he set his feet on the opposite seat, and awaited rescue. His temper having cooled, he began to review in a more rational manner what Doyle had told him. 

By the time the coach was repaired and they were under way again he was able to concede that Doyle might have had some cause for the assumptions he had reached. His own behaviour must have provided the final piece of evidence. In retrospect, the violence of feeling Doyle had admitted to, followed by his flight, gave cause for fresh hope. If it had not mattered so desperately Doyle would not have taken the actions he had. Perhaps that also accounted for the unhappiness he had glimpsed on Doyle's face when the other man supposed himself to be unobserved and the mask he presented to the world slipped. 

Bodie had no intention of letting him go again, never mind leaving him in London with assassins at his back. Bruised pride was a poor reason to turn his back on happiness, he admitted, having had plenty of time to concede that, his failings notwithstanding, Doyle made him happy - when he was not infuriating him. 

At least with Ray he felt alive, he mused, giving a wry grin. 

He was already planning his return to London when his carriage drew up outside the Hall. Learning from a harassed-looking Knowsley that his middle sister and her four youngest children had arrived the previous day, only the fact that Fanny spotted him in the vestibule prevented Bodie from turning tail immediately. 

Blandly informing her that urgent business necessitated his leaving in the morning, Bodie endured his sister's unrelenting stream of advice about household matters which did not concern her with what fortitude he could muster. Unfortunately for his plans, heavy snow kept him trapped in the company of his sibling and her progeny for the next four days, by which time the master of the house was looking as worn as any of his servants. 

*** 

 

The race which Doyle had mooted had to be abandoned due to the inclement weather, unusually heavy falls of snow in the capital making all but major roads impassable. Few of those who gathered together noticed Doyle's absence, the conversation all of bruised hocks and poultices. Only Drew Preston, aware of the severity of Doyle's injury after Saltash's attack and the fact Doyle had dismissed it as of no consequence, wondered if anything was wrong with his friend. Visiting Doyle's chambers on three occasions and failing to gain admittance, he became concerned enough to make a point of waylaying Theo Doyle outside Jackson's rooms in Bond Street to see if he knew what had become of his brother. 

Having heard the younger man out Theo took his time before replying, his own concern hidden behind an affable mask. 

"I shall take Raymond to task for his lack of consideration. Pressing family business called him away unexpectedly. While he charged me with the task of presenting his apologies for the various engagements he must necessarily miss, unfortunately he neglected to supply the names of those concerned." 

"I am glad his absence is so simply explained. I believe I am aware of a number of his forthcoming appointments if you wish me to announce his withdrawal from Town," added Preston helpfully. 

"I should be most grateful if you would." 

"Despite the appearance he chooses to give..." Preston hesitated. "Forgive me, sir, but Raymond is not careless of those he calls friends. That is why I was becoming concerned." 

So was Theo, although he concealed as much, diverting the conversation away from dangerous topics such as when Doyle might be expected to return before making his own excuses. 

In the grip of an unpleasant presentiment Theo returned home, issuing a number of orders before taking his carriage to his brother's chambers. Gaining no response, one of his grooms achieved entry through the locked door with an ease Theo had the wisdom not to question. The rooms had an untenanted air and were almost as cold as the streets. Waving his servants away, Theo checked Doyle's bedchamber himself, standing on the threshold, appalled by the sight which met his eyes. 

The air was icy and thick with the stench of untended illness, his brother unconscious on the ruin of the bed, tangled in bloodstained linen. His lips cracked, his skin had a dry heat. Its source was not hard to find; Doyle's exposed left arm was grossly inflamed and swollen. He did not recover consciousness as Theo issued a number of brisk commands. 

It took Theo a relatively short time to effect the transfer of his brother to his own house, during which operation Doyle was unfortunate enough to recover consciousness, something which the attentions of the doctor Theo summoned soon rectified. 

Theo had steadfastly remained throughout the unpleasant business of holding Doyle down whilst his wound was drained and cleaned. He was still looking a trifle queasy when Doctor Moncton straightened from the bedside. 

Having been informed by his patient that his injury had received the attentions of a physician, Doctor Moncton was still bristling with outrage. "The man who attended your brother may have called himself a physician," he told Theo, "but charlatan is the most charitable word I would use. Thanks to his treatment a relatively minor wound has been exacerbated to the degree where there is a danger Mister Doyle may lose his arm." 

Unobstrusively conscious once more, Doyle flinched. 

Theo's glare made the doctor blanch. "Are you certain?" 

"It is a possibility which must be faced. I trust that the basilicum powder I have administered will prove more efficacious at drawing out the poison than the poultice my predecessor administered. Indeed, if the notion was not so ludicrous, I would suggest that his treatment was responsible for this abomination. I have bled Mister Doyle to reduce his fever. He is young and strong. With constant care..." The doctor adopted a more positive tone because he had no wish to lose such a lucrative client. 

"That he will certainly receive. My wife has considerable experience of nursing." 

"Then let us hope for the best." 

"Oh, I do," said a weak voice, Doyle's entry into the conversation taking the two men by surprise. 

As the doctor fussed over him Doyle flexed the fingers still attached to his injured limb, as if trying to memorise the sensation. 

Remembering his own fears of losing his leg, Theo understood something of what his brother was feeling and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "Annaliese will see you through," he promised. 

Looking put out, Doctor Moncton cleared his throat, disconcerted that his patient should, for once, have heard the unvarnished truth. "As will I." 

The glance Doyle spared him was not that of a man overburdened with confidence, but he drank the potion offered to him without demur, lacking the strength to protest after two nightmarish days. 

"Mister Doyle, I must know the name of the man who tended you so that he may be brought to justice. I do not believe such an injudicious use of herbal remedies was by accident." 

"You may rely on me to deal with the man. Discreetly. I trust I make myself plain?" Theo's tone was so pointed and the expression on his face so intimidating that Moncton immediately abandoned his plans for passing on this fascinating _on dit_ to his other high-born clients. 

"The matter will be fully investigated," continued Theo. "You will call on my brother later today? Excellent. Until then." 

As a footman escorted the doctor from the room Theo sank onto the edge of the bed, viewing his brother's haggard face with concern. "You look all eyes," he said inconsequentially, earning a grimace from Doyle. "What was the first doctor's name?" 

"Hawkins." 

"You realise he tried to murder you?" 

His senses swimming, Doyle nodded. "It occurred to me." He felt as if every agonising minute he had endured was imprinted on his nerve endings. 

"Is that all you can say? Damn it, Raymond! If it had not been for young Preston alerting me to your absence you would have died in that stinking room! What became of your servants? And who recommended Hawkins to you? I'll wager that is the person behind this." 

Bodie...? Doyle dismissed the thought as it formed, the correct memory surfacing. "Then you would lose your wager. I believe I owe this to my ex-valet, for it was he who went for the doctor. Small wonder he disappeared. Were the others gone too?" 

"All save the scullery maid. She said she dared not disturb you," said Theo savagely. "The others were obviously bought off." 

"Probably," agreed Doyle listlessly. 

"Doesn't it disturb you that someone has gone to so much trouble to try and dispose of you? And in such a manner." 

Grimacing as he tried to raise himself on the pillows, Doyle essayed a weak smile, but his eyes were bleak. "Well, I cannot pretend I have enjoyed the experience over much. I regret that you have been put to this inconvenience." 

"Inconvenience!" exploded Theo. "I would be a damn sight more than inconvenienced if you had turned up your toes! This is not the first time you have been attacked, is it?" With Bodie's warnings at the back of his mind, he was careful to make no mention of the other man's involvement. 

"Far from it." 

"Why didn't you come to me for - ? I will not scold you now. But I intend to get to the bottom of this," Theo told him firmly. 

Weary almost beyond endurance, Doyle struggled to maintain the pretence that he had not been shaken to the core by the ugly manner in which this new attack had been made. He gave his injured arm a fleeting glance, too weakened by unrelenting pain and high fever to be able to contemplate the thought of finding himself a one-armed man in a two-armed society. 

"I endeavoured to do just that, but with no success. Consuela is safely under lock and key. John and James are both in Europe. While I may not be the most popular man in Town, I cannot believe I have done anything to earn so malicious an enemy. You will say nothing of this to anyone else?" he added more urgently. "I have no wish to become an object of vulgar speculation. Or for my mysterious enemy to learn how close he came to killing me." 

"We shall see." 

"Theo..." The effort of rising made Doyle gasp; for a moment his breathing was the only sound in the room. 

"Very well," said Theo ungraciously. "But I won't pretend to approve of your decision." 

"You never do," murmured Doyle with the ghost of a smile. "I fear I am somewhat fatigued," he added, when his brother showed no sign of leaving. 

Finally seeing what would have been obvious to a more astute man fifteen minutes ago Theo left his brother alone, if not in peace.


	12. Chapter 12

TWELVE 

_Perhaps I did not always love him as well as I do now. But in such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable._

 

After another uncomfortable twenty-four hours Doyle's condition showed signs of improvement, due in the main to Annaliese's fierce insistence that he should not be bled again. As his fever abated and the ominous red streaks were drawn from the puffy wound, the healing process began. 

Refusing to enter into speculation as to the identity of his attacker, Doyle made his farewells of his brother and sister within a week. His smile was warm with affection as he thanked Annaliese, aware that his arm had been saved thanks to her practical good sense and infinite kindness. Despite their protestations he was determined not to trespass upon their hospitality now he was back on his feet. While he did not speak of it, he was afraid that his unknown assailant might decide to redirect hostilities to the easier target of Theo's family as a means of causing him pain. 

"It is natural that Raymond should prefer to live his own life rather than follow the pattern you would like him to adopt," said Annaliese calmly when appealed to by her husband for support. "But, with your permission, Raymond, I shall rent a small house for you and hire the necessary servants. I do not know what the agency could have been thinking of on the previous occasion. You will not wish to return to your former abode." 

Doyle felt obliged to disclose that he had no intention of remaining in London beyond a week or so. 

"You will," said Theo authoritatively. "I am not having you haring across Europe with a bunch of cutthroats at your back and no one you can call upon for assistance. And that's flat." 

About to argue, Doyle saw Annaliese smile and shake her head behind her husband's back. "Later," she mouthed. Seeing the wisdom in that, he choked back his protests. 

"Very well," he said ungraciously. "But I do not require a house. My old rooms - " 

"Will not do at all," said Annaliese firmly. "I have it! You must take a suite at the Poultenay. And we can spare Travers, who will be able to see to your needs. I believe you will find his services satisfactory. It will relieve Theodore's mind to know you are well-tended," she added. 

Taking the simple expedient of agreeing because he still lacked the strength to argue, Doyle allowed the arrangements to be made and took his final leave of them. 

Once installed at the hotel, he wasted little time in visiting his old haunts. Taken aback by the delight with which his reappearance was greeted, Doyle was glad to accept Drew Preston's invitation to dine quietly with him and a few like-minded cronies. Having been duly briefed by his brother about the supposed reason for his absence, Doyle invented an rich great-aunt who was taking an inordinate time to die to account for his time away from town. He could only trust that no one would be ill-bred enough to comment upon his haggard appearance, fever having stripped him of surplus flesh. 

By the end of the first week Doyle's recovery was complete, aided by the fact he knew himself to be free of surveillance. The relief from the strain of being stalked was supreme. While Doyle did not allow himself to believe the matter was over, he made good use of the respite. 

He did not permit himself to think of Bodie or the future, although his spirits lightened when he overheard Crawley mention that Bodie was back in Town after a short visit to his home. 

Having spent a convivial evening with Drew Preston and two other friends, Doyle strolled down Piccadilly to his hotel, still sober despite the advanced hour; within minutes he became aware that he was being followed, although he could not identify the man. Changing his route, Doyle crossed the road and selected a less populous street. Satisfied that there would be no witnesses to what he proposed, his gait increased as he rounded a corner. 

A moment later the hunter had become the prey, Doyle having taken the man in a choke hold, a primed pistol grinding against the great vein pulsing in the man's fleshy throat. 

"You have thirty seconds to tell me who you are. This has a hairline trigger and I a weak thumb," Doyle announced, his matter of fact tone discouraging disbelief. 

"You're makin' a terrible mistake," croaked the man, his feet slipping as he attempted to keep his balance on the sleety path. 

Doyle tightened his grip, ignoring the protest of his healing arm, the pistol muzzle digging deeper. "Fifteen seconds." His knee pressed against the larger man's bent spine in a manner which would make resistance a risky business. "If you have a God, prepare to meet him," he added emotionlessly. 

"Me name's Bludgeon." 

"Who hired you to follow me?" 

"Bodie! His name's Bodie!" 

This the last name he had expected to hear, Doyle's eyes narrowed. "You lie." 

"'S truth! On my life, sir!" gabbled the man. "Rooms in Conduit Street." 

"Describe him," said Doyle tonelessly, unconsciously relaxing his grip a little. 

Oddly enough Bludgeon made no attempt to take advantage of the fact and escape. "He came to us five weeks ago. Manpower permittin' we've 'ad a man at your back ever since. Though you ain't made that easy," he added sourly. 

"Manpower permitting? Good God! Are you a Runner?" asked Doyle, recocking his pistol and releasing the other man. 

"Not so loud if you please, sir. No telling who might be listenin'," said Bludgeon, having to raise his voice to be heard against the howling wind. 

"Quiet. I want to be certain I understand you. Mister Bodie had the effrontery to ask the Bow Street Runners to follow me?" 

"Aye. We've bin tryin' to apprehend the coves out to top you ever since. It has to be said you've been askin' for trouble, some of the places you choose to frequent." 

"Damn your insolence! The day I need protection I will be sure to ask for it. Until then... Who is your superior?" Doyle demanded. "I won't tolerate being trailed around London as if I were still in short coats." 

"You want it to stop, it's stopped," said Bludgeon when Doyle had to pause to take an angry breath. "Now, if it's all the same to you I'd lief as not stand ankle deep in snow with a storm brewin' when I've got a home to go to. Though I suggest you watch your back. Goodnight to you, sir." Having delivered that ominous warning he stomped off without waiting for permission, his thickset figure soon hidden from sight by the snow, the strong wind lashing the flakes into a whirling mass. 

Doyle was so angry that he hardly noticed the man's departure, glaring into the middle distance until he had regained control of his breathing. 

"The arrogant bastard. How dared he take such a step behind my back," he muttered, brushing snow from his eyes. Only then did he realise quite how cold he was, and that the weather had worsened during the minutes of his abstraction. 

Tucking the pistol into one capacious pocket, he drew up the collar of his greatcoat and looked about him for a hackney cab. The streets were deserted, the rest of the populace having taken heed of the rapidly worsening weather. The muffled silence was eerie, London a city which never slept. A strong gust of wind sent his hat bowling over some railings; Doyle watched it go with resignation before turning back into the near blizzard. Undeterred by the conditions, and ignoring the safety of his hotel only five minutes away, he tucked his chin down, his collar up and his gloved hands in his pockets before setting off for Bodie's rooms as quickly as was possible given the storm that was raging. 

What should have been no more than a ten minute walk took far longer, not least because visibility was reduced to a matter of inches. Finally arriving at his destination, half numb from the cold, Doyle dealt briskly with the sleepy-eyed footman who finally answered the door. Stepping into the blissful warmth of the vestibule, he found Archie in his path. 

"Wha' the de'il - ? Oh. It's ye," recognised the Scot without visible joy, but he had relaxed his defensive stance. 

"Is Bodie home?" demanded Doyle, melting snow dripping from his hair and slipping from his greatcoat to puddle round his feet. 

"Nae only hame, but abed this last hour or more. As all decent folk are. You're gey wet," Archie deigned to notice. 

"Which is his room?" asked Doyle, as he headed for the stairs, not for the first time ignoring polite convention. 

Archie stared after him, astonishment freezing him to the spot. "Hae ye lost your wits? Man, if ye barge in on him like this he'll tear ye limb frae limb." 

An angry glitter in his eyes, Doyle swung round, scattering yet to melt snow from his greatcoat. "He is welcome to try. Which is his room?" 

"This one," said a calm voice as Bodie appeared on the landing.

His cropped hair disordered, he wore the frogged crimson dressing-gown Doyle remembered all too well; he appeared to be naked beneath it, his sleepy expression endearingly dopey from sleep. Staring at that rumpled sensuality, Doyle could not take his eyes off the other man, a naked yearning replacing his anger as he continued to look up the few stairs which were all that separated them. 

Too experienced to mistake the emotions flicking over Doyle's face, Bodie blinked and awoke in earnest, waving his yawning footman away. "Get back to bed, Simmons. It's all right, Archie," he added, his gaze returning to Doyle, who had yet to move. "With a storm of this magnitude in progress, Mister Doyle is welcome to whatever shelter we can provide. Besides, he and I have much to discuss. This is as good a time as any." A door rattled, the sturdy building seeming to shake as a gust of wind howled outside. 

Bodie shivered. "But not here. We'll talk in my chamber. Quite apart from the fact it's the warmest room in the house, I have no intention of dressing so that I may have the pleasure of freezing in the drawing-room. I shall not need anything else," he added truthfully to Archie, his gaze remaining on Doyle, who was breathing hard for a man standing still as stone. 

"Happen he'll be stayin' the night," said Archie, wanting to assure himself of his master's safety. 

"Happen he will," agreed Bodie, giving fervent thanks for the appalling weather and the fact that his double bed offered the only spare mattress space in the house. The circumstances made their unconventional behaviour seem both natural and desirable. 

With the wit to say nothing which might compromise his master, Archie returned to his own bed without another word. 

"Mister Doyle?" said Bodie, gesturing to his room and stepping aside so that Doyle could precede him. 

"You are very wet," Bodie remarked, closing the door by the simple expedient of leaning against it, one hand blindly finding and turning the key in the lock. 

"Snow," remarked Doyle vaguely. 

The comfortable bedroom was warm and lit gold by the fire and the single candle which stood by the disordered bed. A bowl of mulled wine sat in the hearth, the bowl reflecting the red-gold heart of the leaping flames. Beneath the scent of burning logs and spiced wine Doyle's every sense was aware of the man at the door, dishevelled and still warm from his rumpled sheets. 

Doyle ached and shivered, his eyes locked on Bodie. Coherent thought forgotten, he was conscious only of his longing to touch and to taste and to make Bodie shiver in his turn. 

"You wished to speak with me," Bodie prompted him. His voice husky, he was afraid to move lest he betray his need. He had been dreaming of Doyle, his senses yet to be convinced that this was not a part of that dream. Meeting eyes lustrous with lust, his own pupils dilated. 

"Yes." Doyle shrugged out of his greatcoat, which sank soggily to the floor as he stalked toward Bodie, who made no attempt to evade him, even when hands settled at his flanks. "You look ..." 

Giving a helpless shrug, he stopped. They were standing so close that they shared body heat, his senses achingly aware of every breath the other man took. With great care he cradled Bodie's face between his cold palms, shaking with the effort of holding back and only half daring to believe that Bodie would permit him this intimacy. 

One hand settling in the small of Doyle's spine, the other locked in the back of the wet, wind-tangled hair, Bodie kissed him with the pent-up longing of their twenty-one months apart. 

Making a soft sound deep in his throat, Doyle's response as Bodie's hot tongue plundered his icy mouth sent them both rocketing. Grace forgotten, they drank from each other's mouth as if trying to feed from the other's life essence. Their hands everywhere, their fingers were impatient with impeding cloth. Buttons from Doyle's waistcoat bounced unnoticed around their feet, his pantaloons pushed to mid-thigh as they ground and thrust, blindly seeking to bury themselves inside the other's skin. Doyle's jacket was wrenched off to the detriment of a sleeve seam, his cravat following. His shirt hung forgotten from one shoulder at this point. 

Giving Doyle a final, hard kiss, his thrusting tongue proclaiming his intent, Bodie stripped the remaining clothes away and turned Doyle, his only thought to make them one. His breathing ragged, his hands swept down the thin-fleshed spine to clasp the small buttocks. His tumescence stabbed under them, prodding Doyle's tight-drawn testicles. 

"Ray?" he gasped, needing consent. 

"Do it," grated Doyle, his flat-palmed hands splayed against the solid door as he braced his parted legs. His arching cock bobbing up into his belly, he shivered with anticipation. 

A cupped hand appeared beneath his nose. Blind with lust, Doyle kissed it, his tongue flicking into the palm. 

Bodie groaned and bit his shoulder, the thumb of his free hand already sliding over the weeping tip of Doyle's cock. 

"Spit," he commanded roughly, following suit after Doyle tried to obey, mindlessly thrusting back to present himself. 

He looked so damn wanton outstretched against the dark walnut of the door that Bodie groaned, his cock jabbing Doyle's flank as he spread between the small buttocks the saliva he had collected, probing the quivering muscle with ungentle haste. 

"Just do it," Doyle hissed, his fingers curling and uncurling against the door. 

His need too urgent to deny them this coupling, Bodie took a deep breath and sheathed himself in one long stroke whose power sent Doyle forward into unyielding wood. 

Transfixed, Doyle's teeth closed on his own forearm, his agonised expression concealed as he muffled the sounds forced from him while he rode out the storm. Shocked into sanity Bodie was motionless, breath rasping in Doyle's ear, belly plastered against him as his hand sought Doyle out. 

The spasms easing, the pain dulled until Doyle dared to move, one hand going back to drag Bodie impossibly closer. 

"Now," he commanded in a rasping gasp. 

The sound Doyle muffled next was similar to the first, but the exquisite sensations racking him as Bodie, moving strongly, took him again and again, were not. Caught between the twin torments of the hand alternately stripping his swollen prick and squeezing his testicles and the wickedly accurate strokes grazing his prostate over and over again, Doyle convulsed with a silent cry, his spasming muscles completing the cycle for his mate.

Hunched over the bowed body, his mouth at Doyle's neck, Bodie shook like a man with the ague, boneless with the storm of his climax. Supported only by unsteady legs and the angle of Doyle's back, his hands slowly relaxed their death gripe to stroke a silken flank. Withdrawing he slumped to the floor. Staring up, a bemused expression on his face, he could not persuade his clumsy tongue to function, his brain yet to catch up with his body. 

Straightening with some difficulty, a dazed look to his eyes as he turned, Doyle leant against the door, smearing splattered semen onto his back. His nerve endings still sang, remembering every touch. Not trusting himself to speech, his hand settled on Bodie's hair, his fingers threading through the inclined-to-curl softness behind one neat-set ear. 

Bodie gave a shaky sigh and clasped the auburn-haired calf brushing his side. "You should lie down." 

"I will when I can find the energy to move," mumbled Doyle, beginning to wonder if his legs owned his body. 

Giving the back of Doyle's knee a remorseful kiss, Bodie heaved himself upright. Doyle kissed the corner of his mouth and took him in a fierce, almost sexless hug, inhaling the scent and the warmth and the reality of Bodie. Giving a grunt of surprise as the breath was squeezed from him, Bodie found the strength to return the embrace in full measure, plastering them together. 

It was the cooling of their love-warmed flesh which made them part, the cold an intrusive presence it was difficult to ignore. 

Steering Doyle to the bed, a rattle made Bodie hurry to the window. Shuddering at the blast of freezing air as he checked behind the shutters, he quickly refastened them. "If the glass had broken we should be three in a bed with Archie." 

"What an appalling prospect," said Doyle, his hands in the small of his back as he stretched with caution. 

Having noted his silent grimace, Bodie disappeared into his dressing-room to emerge with another robe and a small pot. "One of Archie's salves. If I'd thought to use it earlier you would not be suffering now," he added ruefully, the imprint of his hands on Doyle's firelit skin. "Will you permit me to tend to you?" 

Shaking his head at such a foolish question, Doyle smiled and held the bedrail for support. "I would permit you anything you wished," he said indulgently. 

His expression softening, Bodie nuzzled the nape of the exposed neck before beginning to cleanse his lover. Relieved to find no damage beyond a tiny, external cut and a deal of sore flesh, he applied the salve and buried his face against Doyle's buttocks, kissing him with unmistakable tenderness. 

Turning, Doyle embraced the kneeling man, shivering at the warm breath and roughness stubble. Silently he urged Bodie to rise. 

"What - ?" 

"Don't say anything," Doyle begged him, his hands slipping inside the heavily embroidered silk of the dressing-gown Bodie wore to skim the smooth, muscled planes of the powerful torso. He launched into speech before his insecurities could make him dumb. 

"I did not know it was possible to miss one person as much as I have missed you all these interminable months. I would have made my true feelings known to you before but... having contrived to insult you in every conceivable fashion, I was afraid. I've made a complete mull of everything." 

"Virtually everything," agreed Bodie lovingly. "And what you did not I contrived to spoil. Live with me, Ray?" 

Doyle drew away a little. "I have an abominable temper." 

"I had noticed. My disposition is not the sweetest. So? Arguing with you is infinitely preferable to a solitary peace." 

"I have hawked my wares around the capitals of Europe," said Doyle harshly. 

"And the novelty has yet to wear off?" 

"Damn you! Must you mock everything? For once I am trying to be practical, to consider another's needs before my own." 

"Then the matter is easily settled, for I need you," said Bodie simply. 

Gaining all the reassurance he could wish from his companion's unguarded expression, Doyle's resolve crumbled. "Very well," he said gruffly. "But you are getting a devilish bad bargain in me." 

Bodie silenced him with a kiss, his mouth gentle against the lips swollen from his passion. "Allow me to be the judge of that. You bloody fool," he added indulgently. "Did you seriously imagine I would permit you to leave me again?" 

Doyle wrinkled his nose in an engaging manner. "I was not proposing to give you the chance." 

Bodie shook his head. "What a pair of fools we have been." 

Shivering, Doyle huddled into the dressing-gown which had been provided for him and crouched in front of the fire, his hands outstretched to the flames. "May I?" He gestured to the wine in the hearth. 

"Of course. We'll drink it in bed. Your nose is turning purple." Bodie added frankly, taking the glasses while Doyle paused to build up the fire. 

"That is not the only thing," said Doyle wryly, making haste to slide under the covers. Resting one hand on Bodie's muscular stomach, he sipped his wine, the stresses of recent weeks and the tension of innumerable months sloughed off like an unwanted skin as he exchanged a contented glance with his companion. 

"To us," said Bodie, raising his glass. 

Doyle touched the rim lightly with his own. "I have not ruined your good opinion of me by my stupid jealousy?" he felt constrained to ask, recalling all too clearly Bodie's expression when he had understood the unpleasant assumption which had been made about his character. 

"What good opinion?" mocked Bodie, setting his glass down and rolling onto his side the better to watch the play of light on Doyle's face from the guttering candle. 

"I should have known," murmured Doyle, just as the candle sputtered out. 

Wriggling closer, Bodie's voice drifted into the darkness. "I did not know what loneliness was until you left me. I need you in my life." 

Kissing the silky hair tucked under his chin, Doyle gave an audible swallow. "You have me. As I have you." 

Holding each other tight, needing the reassurance of touch, it was a while before either of them slept. *** 

Snuggled deep under the covers, the roar of the gale outside woke both men. "If it is blowing like this at home, the Hall may lack a roof when we return," Bodie said with sleepy unconcern. 

"Then you shall live with me," said Doyle, snuffling the soft hair at his lover's armpit. 

"Your father may not care to have me for a houseguest." 

"Nor I him for a host. No, I meant on my estate. Or rather my maternal grandmother's estate, which I come into later this year. I miss country life. Don't mock," Doyle added upon feeling Bodie's snort of amusement. "I meant it. We both must be country mice at heart. I shall gladly accompany you to the Hall. I had been wondering how those improvements we began were faring. And what have I said to make you laugh now?" he added with resignation as he felt Bodie's chest shake. 

"I hoped you had been pining for my charms when it was the land you were missing all the time. Cast down again." Bodie's voice caught as Doyle tongued his left nipple until it stood proud. 

"No doubt you will recover to rise to the occasion." Doyle turned his attentions to Bodie's right nipple. 

"Gently, unless you wish me to spill myself prematurely. It has been some months since I - " Tact caused Bodie to trail into silence. Now was not necessarily a good time to discuss his sexual exploits, or lack of them, during their months apart. 

Leaning up on one elbow above him, Doyle held his gaze. "I have not been celibate." His beautiful mouth twisted. "Far from it in fact. I believed I had much to prove to myself." 

"I had heard of your varied interests," said Bodie with care. "But not that you indulged in practices likely to ruin you." Despite himself it was a question. 

"Men? There have been several. But none since I returned to England. In the first three or four months when I toured Europe I laboured under the misapprehension that any body would suffice. I was mistaken, even if that did not prevent me from continuing to sample the delights of various birds of paradise." 

"No more," said Bodie, the words forced from him. 

Unblinking, Doyle sustained that hot gaze. "I had not thought to roam outside our bed. And I would rather you did not." 

Recognising an understatement when he heard one, Bodie gave a relieved sigh followed by a rueful grin. "I believe you are as possessive as I am." 

"Yes." Doyle did not attempt to apologise for the obvious. 

The sound of roof tiles breaking as they were hurled onto the railings at the front of the house distracted Bodie for a moment. 

"If the Hall is damaged we will repair it," said Doyle. 

"It isn't that." 

"Then what has so set you down?" 

"I hoped we could resume our previous lifestyle at the Hall." 

Having slid back under the warmth of the covers, Doyle peered at him. "Is there any reason why we cannot?" 

"Your inheritance will require your attention." 

"True." 

Bodie viewed Doyle's mischievous expression with resignation. "What aren't you telling me?" 

"Until our rapprochement I had resigned myself to being an absentee landlord. Langley Manor is mine. Our estates -" 

" - share a southern boundary!" exclaimed Bodie with delight, sitting bolt upright. 

Assaulted by cold air, Doyle dragged him back down. "I thought that might please you," he said smugly. "What are you frowning about now?" 

"The Prestons have been living there these last fifteen years. And I am certain no one knows he merely rents the place. Lord, what a facer! It is a gem of a house. And you have some of the finest land in the county. No wonder Preston always refused to discuss my proposal to buy the field adjacent to the water-meadow." Bodie's expression underwent another mercurial change. "But we will still be living apart." 

"Will we? Hear me out," Doyle continued placidly as Bodie made to interrupt him. "I can hardly turn the Prestons out after all these years, can I?" 

"Of course not," agreed Bodie contentedly before he flinched as a cool hand settled where he was warmest. 

"Then it is settled." Of the view it was far too noisy to be able to go back to sleep, Doyle's fingers continued to meander. He gave his companion a frankly speculative look. 

"Oh yes," said Bodie, turning onto his stomach. 

"No, not this morning. Unless you cannot wait?" 

"That depends upon what you propose instead." 

"Oh, nothing out of the ordinary," mused Doyle, his flat-palmed hand travelling in great swathes from neck to thigh, lingering as it rested on the muscular mounds of Bodie's buttocks, the circular caresses making him squirm with pleasure. "Something slower. Much, much slower. Having been starved of you, I intend to savour every glorious inch." 

Giving a winded sigh, Bodie slumped. "There are a great many inches," he warned. 

"Boasting again?" queried Doyle lovingly. Nipping gently at the lobe of Bodie's ear, and nuzzling the nape of his neck, he began an oral voyage of exploration whose skill left Bodie whimpering with frustration into the pillows, the mattress beneath him unable to provide sufficient stimulation. 

Every nerve exquisitely sensitive by this time, Bodie gasped as he was turned, his cock eloquent of his need. 

"That is so beautiful," breathed Doyle, tracing the passage of veins, just able to span its circumference with one hand. His tongue flicked out, teasing the weeping eye, his hair a further tickling stimulus. 

Bodie bucked. "Ray..." 

Doyle took him in, one hand massaging the taut-drawn testicles as he eased his lover into a climax which seemed to last forever. 

Limp, lethargic and with the remnants of a fatuous grin on his face, Bodie smiled drowsily into Doyle's eyes. "That was... glorious. But I am selfish. What of - ?" Finding the lax, sticky evidence of his partner's satiation, he smiled again, content to know how greatly he had pleased the other man. 

"I dreamt of performing that service for you so many times," Doyle admitted, allowing himself to be drawn over his mate. 

"And I for you. We - My God, Ray! Your arm! What in Heaven's name happened since I last saw you?" Appalled, Bodie traced carefully over the angry-looking scar that was twice the size of the injury as he had last seen it. 

"Don't concern yourself. The wound became infected, that is all." 

Bodie said something succinct and vulgar. "The truth if you please." 

Rolling onto his back, his forearm over his eyes, Doyle's mouth assumed a disconsolate droop which caused Bodie to lean over to touch it gently with his own. 

"Don't you realise how it makes me feel to know you suffered so," he whispered, brushing Doyle's cheek with the backs of his fingers. 

Giving an audible swallow, his defences not proof against tenderness, Doyle's head turned. "I have no idea what I did to deserve you, but whatever it is I am inordinately grateful. I am in excellent health now." 

Unconvinced, Bodie studied him with new eyes, noting the recent weight loss and small stress lines still visible on Doyle's face. "Tell me," he begged. 

And so Doyle did, even admitting the terror he had felt when he thought he must lose his arm. 

His emotions travelling through several stages, Bodie was still smouldering quietly with rage against Doyle's attacker when a knock on the door announced Archie's presence, galvanising the men entwined in bed. 

"My clothes!" yelped Doyle, holding up the offending garments. 

"I can lend you a clean neckcloth," said Bodie, shrugging into his dressing-gown while calling for Archie to return in five minutes, his voice as languid as if he had just wakened. 

Mute, Doyle held out his torn shirt, giving a grin at Bodie's look of consternation. "Quite. But what we can do to - ? I have it! Quick, the tongs." 

"You'll burn that jacket if you - Ah, I understand. We set your clothes by the fire to dry and they fell into the hearth where a smouldering log rolled onto them," said Bodie, making good that statement and wrinkling his nose at the stench of singed wool. 

"But will it suffice to protect your good name?" muttered Doyle feverishly, dragging a hand through his curls and inadvertently distributing wood ash on his face. 

"Perfectly, as far as the other servants are concerned. Archie will pretend to believe it, as he deigned not to notice all the betraying signs of our lovemaking in the past." 

Doyle stared at him large-eyed. "He knows?" 

"Almost certainly." 

"But - " 

"I trust Archie as I trust myself - or you." That reassurance having the effect of silencing the other man, Bodie smiled. "I doubt if it is ever possible to be totally private from one's manservant. But we shall need to be prudent." 

"I am surprised that you admit familiarity with the concept. But you are correct. And we shall contrive. The stakes are too high for us to do otherwise. It seems strange to have my future mapped out," Doyle mused as he shrugged into the dressing-gown Bodie had been warming in front of the fire for him. 

"Unpleasantly so?" asked Bodie quickly, experiencing a momentary doubt. 

"Ask me that same question forty years from now," said Doyle placidly, seating himself by the fire as Archie knocked on the door and entered the room. 

Bodie explained Doyle's ruined clothing with a glibness which faltered when Archie trod on a couple of buttons ripped from Doyle's waistcoat. Manfully avoiding his lover's laughter-brimming eyes Bodie recovered to suggest that a servant be sent to the Poultenay to obtain fresh clothing. 

While Doyle day-dreamed in front of the fire, Bodie readied himself for the day, dressed by the time the servant Archie had despatched arrived with Doyle's garments, the unfortunate man taking some time to thaw out in the kitchen. 

In no hurry to venture out into the fresh snowstorm, which had reduced visibility to a few feet and emptied the streets once more, Bodie and Doyle breakfasted before making themselves comfortable in the drawing-room. There they talked easily about their activities while they had been apart. Eventually Bodie steered the conversation to the events which had come close to severing their relationship, wishing to ensure that the subject of his dead lover and Theo could never come between them again. 

"As you have probably surmised by this time, your brother was a dear friend of Timothy's, which is how Theo and I became acquainted. While Theo and I have little in common, he is a man difficult man to dislike," finished Bodie with tact. 

Recognising as much, Doyle grinned. "His understanding is not powerful, but you are correct. I tried to hate him," he admitted ruefully. "I wanted to, but while bitterness was possible in the abstract, upon meeting him on my return to England it was impossible to feel anything but resigned affection. It was then that I began to consider the situation in a more rational manner." 

"And not before time," said Bodie, able now to tease about that period of their lives. 

"Once I learn a fact I do not forget it. It was, I surmise, Timothy who was your lover?" 

"And he who died. But, for a moment, as Theo stepped into the light, I thought it was Tim. Lord knows why, for the only characteristics he and Tim shared were their build and colouring. No one would have called Tim beautiful," Bodie added dispassionately, his expression one of fond remembrance. "Then I was merely delighted he had survived. Of course, you came to accept that he and I were never intimate?" 

"The moment I saw the pair of you together in Town. I was a jealous fool," Doyle sighed. 

Bodie nudged one of the outstretched feet opposite him with his own. "I will not quarrel with that assessment. But perhaps if I had spoken more openly of my true emotions. The guilt I felt for being alive and whole when so many men had fallen had been colouring my memory since Quatre Bras." 

Doyle looked up quickly but forbore to press his companion, unwilling to force Bodie into making confidences he might later regret. "I gained some indication of what war can mean during my travels," he said quietly. 

"It is hard on soldiers, harder still on civilians. I wish there to be no misunderstanding between us, which is why I spoke of Timothy. We were friends and lovers of several years' standing when he died but... It is difficult to explain the reality of our relationship. We were young and shared a taste for forbidden fruit. There was no lifelong commitment, or any intent of forming such. Tim was betrothed and at that time I did not rule out the possibility of marriage for myself. Knowing our futures would not remain together we lived only for the present. Soldiering sobered us both. You would have liked him," Bodie finished. 

Even now a prey to twinges of jealousy for the dead man who had shared a part of Bodie's life he could never know, except at second-hand, Doyle nodded. "I am sure I should." 

"Or perhaps not," Bodie conceded realistically, his mouth quirking as Doyle had the grace to look abashed. Perfectly attuned to his lover at that moment, Bodie crossed the small space between them to crouch at Doyle's side. "You hold my heart," he said steadily, the words coming easily to him. 

"As you - " 

A sound outside the door parted them. By the time the footman entered the room Bodie stood on the opposite side of the fireplace, languidly enquiring whether his guest wished to play a rubber or two of piquet. 

"Let us return to the Hall with all haste," said Doyle with a husky-voiced impatience, as soon as they were alone. "At least we may be more private together there. At the moment I resent every minute we cannot touch, let alone the time we must spend apart. While I know that need will become less urgent as we make our life together - " He gave a helpless shrug. 

"We both wish to make up for lost time," completed Bodie. He, too was finding it difficult to control his desire to touch his lover, just for the pleasure of knowing Doyle was there. "We shall have to wait, I am afraid. We are going nowhere until I have flushed out your unknown assailant. We will contrive well enough until then." 

"I am glad you think so," said Doyle, his look openly sceptical as he rose to his feet. "It is time to put our resolve to the test. The wind seems to have abated. I must return to my hotel lest the storm start up again." 

Bodie's involuntary protest made Doyle smile, albeit with little humour. "Of course I do not want to go. But the proprieties." His over-refined tone mocked both them and the dictates of the world they inhabited. 

"I knew I should have hired larger chambers," said Bodie savagely, unable to argue with Doyle's logic. "Stay. If only for an hour or two more," he added jerkily. 

"For an hour or two," Doyle agreed with a betraying alacrity. 

That deadline was long past when Archie arrived to save the day. "The snow's started again so I've made ye a bed up in the master's dressing-room," he told Doyle without ceremony. "Ye'll be cramped but warm." 

Bodie eyed Archie blankly. "Where did you find a spare bed?" 

"I didnae. It belongs tae Simmons. While he's nae thrilled at the prospect, he an' Coxen will hae tae double up. There's nae a soul stirring on the streets so I've nae doot there's others camping oot this night," Archie added, careful to avoid meeting his master's beaming face. 

"Thank you," said Doyle, not trusting his lover to say anything that was sensible. "Pray thank Simmons for me, too. I was not looking forward to leaving," he added, slipping a generous handful of coins to Archie. 

"Half o' that'll be plenty. There's nae call tae spoil the lad," Archie told him brusquely, taking what he considered the footman deserved. "Will ye be wantin' tae change?" he added to his master.

"No. There is no need to stand on ceremony with only Ray here." 

"Thank you," said Doyle dryly. 

"And as he cannot change for dinner," continued Bodie, as if there had been no interruption, "it would be discourteous of me to place him at a disadvantage." 

Archie and Doyle sniffed their disbelief in unison. 

"We'll dine early tonight. Say in an hour's time. I'm devilish hungry. I wish to make an early night of it. Mister Doyle and I were discussing business matters well into the morning and I for one am tired," added Bodie, feigning such an unconvincing yawn that Doyle nearly choked on a mouthful of wine. 

"We shall have to contrive better than this in the future," he warned Bodie once Archie had left. 

"I shall be all sobriety in a day or so," Bodie promised him. "Until then, allow to me to ... indulge myself." 

Doyle could no more have resisted the expression on the other man's face than he could fly. "The pleasure," he said with truth, "is all mine. I believe I should welcome an early night." 

"That's fortunate," said the master of the house.


	13. Chapter 13

THIRTEEN 

_He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before._

 

"You arrogant, bad-tempered - " 

"I hardly need you to catalogue my faults," interrupted Doyle, so angry that his voice shook. "If you - " His half-open mouth invaded, it was a moot point whether he savaged the tongue silencing him before he choked on it. 

Staking his claim without finesse or apology, Bodie withdrew at leisure. "Bite me and it will be the worse for you," he promised. 

"How dared you follow me!" raged Doyle, freeing himself to stalk around the room, needing some release for his churning emotions. 

"Name me an alternative? Given that we have come no closer to finding your assailant in this last month, you're lucky I have not put you in a ball and chain! Do you imagine I gain pleasure from spying on you?" Bodie demanded, catching hold of the pacing figure the better to make his point. 

Doyle just glared at him. 

"If you won't have a thought for your safety, I must. Consider the events of only an hour ago." Bodie's voice had roughened. 

"Is that your excuse for invading my privacy?" demanded Doyle. 

Knowing himself to be in the wrong, Bodie maintained a sullen silence. Making a sound of impatience, Doyle caught hold of him, his mouth latching onto his lover's, arrogantly forcing an entry. Bodie made no attempt to protect himself from the ungentle forays. They had both been shaken by Doyle's near escape after a runaway dray had shed its load outside the coffee-house Doyle had been leaving. The marks on Doyle's garments bore witness to how close he had come to being crushed to death, the casks full of ale. 

"Damn you," whispered Doyle, remorseful now. "I am sorry. But you frightened me half to death. I felt sure that wheel must catch you as you knocked me aside. Next time call out. I am quite capable of jumping clear without you leaping to my rescue. Besides, I did not expect to see you there." 

"If you mean I would have warned you of the stupidity in sitting in public view as you did, you are correct." 

"Don't scold," murmured Doyle, his hands travelling over his lover, less in passion than the need to assure himself that Bodie was unharmed. Private communication had been impossible until now because of concerned passers-by and the acquaintances who had been less easy to shake off. Their argument had sprung to life the moment they were private together in Doyle's hotel suite. 

Leaning his forehead against Doyle's, Bodie was silent for a moment before he drew away. "If you must make such an easy target of yourself, at least allow me to accompany you. I swear these past few weeks have given me grey hairs." 

Doyle eyed him quizzically. "I see no sign of them yet." 

"Well, it is no thanks to you exercising any caution," snapped Bodie, whose patience had been sorely tried. 

"I _am_ sorry. I did not consider you," Doyle conceded. 

"No," agreed Bodie unforgivingly. 

Doyle grimaced. "It is not just that, is it?" 

"No," Bodie admitted. "I want to be with you. Not just for a snatched hour for love, though there's been precious few of those either. I enjoy your company," he added in a goaded tone, as if driven to explain the aberration. 

"Oh, my poor love." Chuckling, Doyle hugged him close. "We are decidedly unfashionable in our need for each other." 

"That is not what public opnion would say if the truth about our relationship were to come out." 

"Do you feel you run an unacceptable risk?" asked Doyle sombrely, this a topic he tried not to dwell on. 

"Don't be nonsensical. Blame my acid tongue on my sense of frustration," said Bodie with a wry grimace. 

"That much I understand," said Doyle in a heartfelt tone. "We should not permit my assailant to disrupt our lives in this fashion. To do so gives him an unwarranted importance in our lives. I shall be leaving Town in the near future. My unknown adversary will not find me such an easy target in the country." 

"Have your wits gone wandering?" 

"Calm yourself and consider my proposal rationally," Doyle begged him. "Here there are a thousand places a man may hide. You know as well as I that the reverse is true in the country. Hiring cutthroats won't be so easy outside London." 

Bodie sighed. "While your reasoning is far from sound, I am inclined to believe that any action is preferable to this. I will send word to the Hall that we are on our way home." 

"Not on my account. I go to Crenley. Alone," Doyle added, his voice clipped. 

Comprehension overtook Bodie's doubt. "I thought you had vowed never to set foot in the place again?" 

"A man may change his mind," said Doyle with dignity. 

"Indeed? Then I trust your sire will still make me welcome. Circumstances did not permit me to avail myself of his earlier offers of hospitality." His expression bland, Bodie checked the folds of his cravat in the mirror, amusement crossing his face when he saw the consternation Doyle was slow to control. 

"I have pressing business to discuss with him. Private family business," Doyle stressed with an emphasis some men would have found insulting. 

Smiling, Bodie waited until he began to fidget. "I doubt if your father will thank you for drawing a murderer to Crenley. Much better for us to deal with him at the Hall," he added coaxingly. 

Giving a hiss of exasperation, Doyle swung him round. "I will not permit you to place your life or home in jeopardy on my account. Let me make myself plain - " 

"With or without your permission I intend to accompany you. The matter is not open to debate. Try to contemplate your feelings if our positions were reversed." 

The severity of Bodie's tone brought Doyle up short. About to argue, innate fairness caused him to offer the fencer's gesture of defeat. "You are impossible," he announced irritably, dragging a hand back through his hair. 

"We are well suited. Do you truly wish to visit your father?" 

"Of course I don't. But I could think of nowhere else to go where I would not risk publicising my plight." 

"Then let us go home." 

"Why is it, " said Doyle in a goaded tone, "that you always get your own way?" But as Bodie's hand sought his, he returned the clasp, twining their fingers before giving a reluctant smile. "You are shameless," he scolded. 

"Unregenerate," Bodie agreed contentedly. 

"And, I have no doubt, the possessor of profligate sexual appetites." 

Bodie's gaze was on the door of the sitting-room. "Dare we?" 

"Against the door?" 

"Better than the sofa," decided Bodie, eyeing the elegant insubstantial furniture with disfavour. 

Doyle advanced on his lover. "And what better place to ensure we are not disturbed." 

His broad shoulders to the door, bared only from nipple to knee, Bodie fed from his lover's mouth, his soft pleasured moans taken into Doyle as their stroking hands swiftly achieved their desired objective. It took little, they were young and healthy and hungry for the touch of the other. 

As if to compensate for his harshness Doyle was all sweetness, lavishing caresses and barely audible love words, his face pressed into the side of Bodie's neck as he, too, hunched and came. Calming, the two men kissed again, rubbing noses, anything to prolong their physical intimacy. 

"You are my heart. Let us leave tomorrow. At first light," urged Doyle, Bodie's face framed between his hands, his loving gaze missing none of the small changes of expression. 

"Whatever you want," said Bodie, helpless before that look. 

Doyle's mouth quirked. "Well, this complaisance won't last, thank God! Come. We'd best tidy ourselves and make a round of the clubs to publish our forthcoming journey. Here, you'd best use this," he added prosaically, handing Bodie a handkerchief. 

"You're such a romantic," Bodie sighed, before taking it. 

*** 

 

Mentioning his departure to every acquaintance he met, Doyle was spared difficult questions thanks to Society's fascination with the latest _on dit_ regarding the likely sire of Lord Melchester's youngest daughter. As the only surprise to Bodie's friends was that he had come to London at all, his task was even easier. 

Duly reminded of the necessity by his lover, Doyle took Bodie with him to visit his brother the following morning. 

"But this is splendid! We are leaving for Crenley ourselves. Papa wishes me to learn something of estate management. If you permit, we shall accompany you. And perhaps break our journey at the Hall, Bodie?" said Theo, beaming with honest pleasure. 

Common courtesy prevented Bodie from pointing out that his home was hardly a convenient staging post for Crenley. 

Doyle's glare would have incinerated a more sensitive soul. "What of your family?" he asked with foreboding. 

"They accompany me, of course," replied Theo, surprised there should be any doubt. "If the crying of Cressida - the poor mite's teething - does not do the trick, I can rely on Hector and Lionel to irritate Papa to the degree where we shall not need to stay beyond a month or so. When do you set off?" 

Giving a mutinous sigh at the ruin of their plans, Doyle left it to his lover to say all that was proper. 

To Bodie and Doyle's surprise their journey passed pleasantly, but it was something of a blow when Bodie discovered his sister to be still in residence. The rafters soon rang with the sound of childish voices, those combatants old enough to toddle having taken their opposite number in instant dislike. The war was short-lived, Hector rounding off an event-filled morning by blacking the eye of Fanny's eldest son, a priggish youth four years his senior. 

Quivering with outrage Fanny demanded that Bodie act. Her maternal bosom further swelling when he gave the champion a mild scold softened by an ineptly slipped guinea, she announced her intention of leaving forthwith. Only the poke in the ribs Doyle administered quelled Bodie's broad grin. While Bodie endured his sister's lecture with a bland inattentiveness, Doyle disappeared to galvanise the servants to such good effect that Fanny's carriage was bowling down the drive within two hours. 

"I really cannot apologise enough," said Annaliese. 

"Do not distress yourself unnecessarily, Mrs. Doyle," said Bodie happily. "But for Hector's aid I fear I should have been compelled to house my sister and her repulsive offspring until Autumn, by which time I should have lost all my servants and very likely my wits too. Come, you must concede that Fanny is - " 

" - a trifle forthright," allowed Annaliese, interrupting what would have undoubtedly been a glaring indiscretion. "But are you sure that - ?" 

"He is positive," said Doyle, taking pity on his mate. "Come, here is Theo. Let him tell you how the fight came about. I am sure you will agree Herbert was provoked. Now, if you will forgive us, there are various urgent matters regarding the estate which Bodie and I have not had the opportunity to discuss." 

"You are a consummate liar," said Bodie admiringly later that night when they were alone in his bedchamber. 

"But there were pressing matters to resolve." Doyle's innocent expression was in stark contrast to the activities of his hands. 

Finally replete, they lay in a contented tangle, in no hurry to sleep as they exchanged desultory caresses and lazy kisses. 

"Bliss to think Theo will soon be gone," remarked Bodie. 

"Preferably sooner rather than later. I feared for Lionel's safety after he knocked that suit of armour down onto Archie. I am almost tempted to visit Crenley for the pleasure of witnessing my father's discomfiture. Even he will be hard-pressed to keep those hell-born brats in order." 

"So it wasn't you I saw playing cricket with them when the window got broken?" 

"They may be brats, but they are entertaining - in small doses. Besides, the window was my doing, not theirs," added Doyle. "I meant to tell you. Anyway, you went riding with them." 

"Only to keep them out of Saul's way," said Bodie defensively. "They aren't so bad, I suppose." Sensing he had lost his companion's attention, he raised his head. "What's amiss?" 

"Gordon," said Doyle flatly. "We have been in residence for three days and I have not set eyes on him. Is he well?" 

"Well enough," said Bodie guardedly. 

"And?" prompted Doyle, who had caught Bodie's wary glance. 

"Archie tells me that when Gordon heard you were returning, he asked to be allowed to accompany Ned to Norfolk to collect that prize ram I have purchased. They are due back tomorrow." 

Doyle's mouth had thinned. "I wondered if something like that might have occurred. Do you realise this is the first time I have spared Gordon a thought in almost two years? Admirable of me, is it not? He trusted me and I threw that trust and affection back in his face. How I must have hurt him when I left so abruptly," he added, almost to himself. 

"He was somewhat distressed," Bodie admitted. "He seemed to hold me to blame at first. He never quite trusted me where your welfare was concerned. So Archie took a hand, with his usual lack of diplomacy. I am afraid that in redeeming my good name he painted a rather black picture of you." 

"Deservedly so." Doyle was silent for a moment before adding, "Do you recall my having the temerity to twit you about the duty of care a gentleman owes to those in his charge? You are generous not to throw those remarks back in my face. I was a pompous fool." 

"Generosity has nothing to do with it. I merely understand something of what Gordon feels," said Bodie unguardedly, for a moment thrown back to the dreadful day when his world had come crashing down around him. 

That roused Doyle from self-pity as nothing else could have done. Making a soft sound of contrition he hugged Bodie to him before clasping the other man's face between his hands. 

"In my arrogance I believed I loved you then. I did not know what love is. You give me so much and I repay you by... I make promises rarely, but I promise I will do everything in my power to ensure I never hurt you like that again," he said, his expression both fierce and tender. 

His own emotions in a somewhat precarious state, Bodie buried his face in the junction of Doyle's neck and shoulder. He had not felt so protected since he was a small boy, and he had never felt so cherished; unaccustomed humility made him shy of the other man. 

Sensing his lover's difficulty, Doyle nuzzled Bodie's neck and his voice still roughened by emotion, said teasingly, "I do believe you are blushing." 

Making a sound somewhere between laughter and tears, Bodie hugged him tight. 

*** 

Having rashly mentioned that a Fair was to visit Stapleforth on market day, Bodie and Doyle accompanied Theo and his stepsons. The day was mild for early March, the ride a pleasant one, the boys' lack of skill at driving the gig they shared with their father notwithstanding. 

While Doyle attended to the stabling of the horses, Bodie booked a private room at the comfortable inn where they would partake of lunch. A harried-looking Theo had already disappeared to find his sons, who had last been seen heading for the sound of the hurdy-gurdy playing in an adjacent field. 

Yet to decide on their own plans, Bodie and Doyle were conferring in the sunlight as a cart bearing Gordon and Ned Smith turned into the yard, a large crate fastened behind them. The noise emanating from it suggested the ram was not enjoying his confinement. 

Greeting his men, Bodie drew Doyle forward. Electing not to notice the sullen set of Gordon's face when he saw his erstwhile master, Bodie took Ned into the taproom for a tankard of ale, leaving Doyle to make his peace with Gordon in private. 

Gaining no response to his greeting, Doyle climbed up next to Gordon, who stared fixedly ahead of him, his hands tightening on the reins he held. 

"I wish to beg your pardon," said Doyle quietly. 

"Why? You don't owe me nothing." 

"At the very least I owed you common courtesy. But the friendship between us meant I - " 

"Friendship! No, I ain't that foolish. I know my place." 

"Gordon, I - " 

"If you've said your piece I'll be off." 

"At least hear me out." 

Desperate to escape a situation he did not know how to deal with, Gordon lashed the luckless animal standing between the shafts, startling him into a canter. The heavy cart, which was not built for speed, lurched across the cobbles of the yard in the most alarming manner, almost throwing Doyle from his seat. 

"Pull up!" 

"I'm tryin' to," yelled Gordon, whose inexperience at the reins was becoming obvious. 

Doyle grabbed them from him, aware of the carnage which would result if the cart did not stop before the end of the lane, which led onto a square packed with stalls and pedestrians. Sawing at the reins as he dragged at the brake, he succeeded in slowing, then stopping the cart yards from disaster. His hat long since lost, his hair a wind-tangled mess, he wiped the sweat from his face and sank back with a sigh. 

"I'll wager this old lad hasn't moved so fast in years," he murmured to Gordon, slipping from the cart to ensure the gelding was uninjured. 

"If you'll take the reins I'll stay at his head until he has settled. He'll do best on the move," called Doyle, a gentle hand on the bridle and an eye on a skittish-looking Gordon, of the view that some occupation would best suit all of them. 

"I could've killed you," Gordon mumbled, as they set off back to the inn at a slow walk. 

Doyle paid him the courtesy of treating him as a responsible adult rather than offering a comforting platitude. "Perhaps. That can be the most extreme result of losing one's temper. There are other consequences which, while less permanent, may still be painful." 

Gordon took his time before replying. "When you left, was it because I'd done something wrong?" 

Doyle brought the gelding to a halt. He had known of his importance in Gordon's world but hearing it confirmed deepened his sense of guilt. "Of course not. Your behaviour was all I could have asked for and more than I sometimes deserved. My departure had to do with a matter of family business. But I lost my temper. When I realised my mistake, in my pride I thought it too late to put matters right. Do you understand?" 

While Gordon did not, he had relaxed to a marked degree. "I'm glad it weren't me," he said almost inaudibly before his voice gained in confidence. "Nathan seems calm enough now. An' you'd be more comfortable riding." He moved, leaving ample room for Doyle. 

Resuming his seat, Doyle gestured for Gordon to keep the reins. "I had no notion the lane was this long. We seemed to travel down it in seconds. I take no pride in my actions all those months ago," he added quietly. "And I deeply regret distressing you." 

"I'll see Nathan right when we get to the inn," said Gordon, ignoring the latter part of Doyle's speech. But he gave his companion a shy look. 

Angry noises from the crate reminded them of the ram. Their strained relations forgotten, they exchanged amicable grins. 

"We'll toss for who looks at him," said Doyle. 

"Or get Ned to check him out," suggested Gordon. 

"An admirable notion." 

"Happen you've found a new man," Gordon added with would-be inconsequence. 

"No. I hoped you might consider re-entering my service. Unless you are happier in your new position?" 

"It's all right." Gordon thought for a minute. "But I like havin' someone of my own to look after best." 

Knowing what he was letting himself in for, Doyle could not regret his decision, Gordon's courage when he had been friendless and in need of succour something he would never forget. "I certainly require looking after. Thank you," he added simply, extending his hand. 

After wiping his own on his jacket, Gordon shook it. "Mister Archie's taught me about caring for a gentleman. I won't disgrace you," he said, bringing the cart to a halt outside the inn. 

"It never occurred to me that you might. I fear I shall keep you busy. As you know I am not the tidiest of men. Mister Bodie has done me the honour of appointing me estate manager, so we shall be living at the Hall for the foreseeable future. If that meets with your approval?" teased Doyle. 

Gordon's beam spoke volumes, what he had seen of the world having been less than kind. He was about to leave the cart when a movement from an upper window of the inn caught Doyle's eye. With no time to call a warning, he pushed Gordon out of the way, sending them both tumbling onto the cobbles. 

"Stay down!" he hissed to his bewildered companion, who was clutching an elbow numbed by its contact with the ground. "Someone just fired a pistol at me. I'll see you safe," Doyle added, wondering how he was to make good his claim, the courtyard being deserted and himself unarmed. 

Peering between the shafts, not daring to offer a clearer target, Doyle saw his assailant more clearly as the man leant out. One foot on the narrow ledge, he maintained his balance by grasping the side of the window, a pistol in his free hand. The angle concealed his face, his intent only too clear. 

"He's above us. Second floor. Don't make a sound," Doyle whispered. "You're safe enough under the cart. Stay there whatever happens." 

With potential customers at the fair and market, the yard and the inn were quiet, only a distant clatter and the occasional raised voice betraying the whereabouts of kitchen and stable staff. Trusting that the angle at which the cart sat would protect them, Doyle peered up, flinching back under cover as the man craned out, seeking a line on his quarry. A moment later the man screamed as the wood he was grasping crumbled, tipping him forward. 

The body bounced from the side of the cart onto the cobbles, the pistol discharging into the wall as the firing pin was released. Staring at the dead man, it took Doyle a moment to recognise that it was Simon Turner. Recalled to himself, he scuttled under the nervous gelding to recover the pistol, tucking it away as figures tumbled into the yard. In the confusion he took the time to explain matters to Gordon. 

"The man is dead. If you are questioned, say I saw him fall and pushed us both out of the way. I will explain later." Drawing Gordon from under the cart on the side furthest from the body, he clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll be gone a moment, no more." 

So great was his trust in his master that Gordon simply nodded, tucking his shaking hands under his armpits. 

Pushing through the noisy crowd which had gathered, Doyle nimbly avoided a woman who had decided to swoon and looked for a figure of authority. 

"Are you the innkeeper? I regret to inform you that one of your guests has fallen to his death from an upstairs window, narrowly missing my servant and myself. I suggest the body be removed from public view until I can make my report to the authorities. Send word to the town constable. I will await him in the private room Mister Bodie booked for our party." 

"At once, sir," said the inn keeper. His bemused gaze on the dead man's feet, he was obviously wondering what effect this calamity would have on business. 

Bodie, Theo and the boys arrived back at the inn as the covered body was being borne away on a hurdle. 

"What is going on?" demanded Bodie, immediately noticing that Doyle, while pale and dishevelled, was unharmed. 

"A most regrettable incident." Doyle's bland gaze on the boys, he added rapidly, "A guest here fell to his death, witnessed by Gordon and myself. It would be more appropriate to discuss the details at a later date. I sent Gordon and Ned off to the Fair. Gordon was shaken after making his report to the town constable." 

"And you?" asked Bodie, frowning. 

"A trifle. Relieved, also." Ignoring the sharp glances Theo and Bodie shot at him, Doyle added, "How did you enjoy the Fair?" 

Hector and Lionel, who had been so busy examining their purchases that they had missed the conversation taking place above them, caught the magic word and answered in unison. It required little effort by the adult members of the party to ensure that the conversation remained on such light- hearted topics, the boys full of what they had seen. Their plans for the afternoon included another visit to the booth housing the two-headed man, not to mention the fattest woman on earth and the fire-eater. 

"I shall visit the tumblers first," said Doyle when his preference was sought. 

"You intend to go?" said Bodie in surprise. 

"I should regret missing a two-headed man."

Resigned to a tedious afternoon amongst the tawdry sideshows, Bodie forgot his cynical musings, swiftly reverting to a small boy. In the event, it was Doyle who had to drag him away. The boys were laden with the spoils the men had won for them, Gordon and Ned carrying the bulkier items. Having discovered a soul-mate in Gordon, the boys successfully pleaded for him to drive them home. 

"As Silver has pulled a muscle, he'd best stay at the stables while Ned rides Bronze. He can accompany the gig," said Bodie. 

"But what of me?" asked Theo. 

"You will accompany Ray and myself in the cart, of course." 

"The cart?" 

"Too grand for you, eh?" grinned Doyle. "Get in. And mind what you are about. The ram is still nervous." 

"Why should I be the one to travel with him?" demanded Theo indignantly. 

"Because I am driving and it is Bodie's cart." 

Theo eyed his chuckling sons. "Not a word of this, or what you have eaten today, to your mother. Very well. Off you go. Gordon, if they misbehave set 'em down to walk." He waved them off. 

"I thought you might feel more sanguine if Ned accompanied them," explained Bodie. He watched with ill-concealed amusement as Theo clambered onto the back of the cart, gingerly edging past the securely lashed crate housing the ram. 

"I do. The boys are the work of two men. Reminds me, I'll settle with the pair of you for what you've spent on them." 

"You will not," said Doyle over the clatter the cart made on the cobbles. "It's my belief you're out of sorts because we bested you at the coconut-shy." 

"You're in high spirits," remarked Theo, trying to make himself comfortable. "Are you certain there is no room up front?" 

"Positive," said Bodie and Doyle in unison. 

Sighing, Theo clutched the back of their seat. "Then you'd best tell me what really happened this morning. I presume that is why I am being subjected to this indignity." 

"In part," Doyle agreed, bringing them up to date with events. 

"I thought I'd seen the last of Turner. If it had been me he was after I could understand it, but what were you to him that he should seek your death?" puzzled Bodie. 

"Can't you guess?" said Doyle in an acid undertone that carried only to the man at his side. "He took me in dislike from the first. It was a while before I appreciated why." 

"You cannot be jealous of him," Bodie murmured, self-conscious about his previous lapse of taste and judgement. 

"We'll discuss that later," said Doyle, giving a reassuring grin when Bodie glanced at him. "Of course I am not. Credit me with a little sense." 

"I should be delighted to if given due cause. But I do not understand why he should be behind those attacks on you," Bodie added absently, too relieved that the threats to Doyle's life were over to consider the matter rationally. 

"Nor I," said Doyle, who did not consider that the fact Turner had been Bodie's lover constituted sufficient reason for murder. "Theo, what do you make of it?" he asked, raising his voice before adding to Bodie, "Theo is aware of the threats against me." 

"Yes, I know," Bodie admitted. 

"Of course you do," chipped in Theo. "It was you who put me a word to the wise. You are damned lucky in your friends, Raymond." 

"I won't quarrel with you on that score. Even," Doyle added in a different tone, as a forgotten memory surfaced, "when thanks to them I find myself being followed round London by a Bow Street Runner. Bludgeon," he prompted. 

"Was that his name?" said Bodie, playing for time. 

"You know full well it was. Why else do you imagine I came to see you the night of the storm?" 

Bodie's mouth quirked. "I don't believe I cared. It was enough that I was able to offer you shelter," he added humbly. 

"No doubt that is why Bludgeon slipped my mind until now," said Doyle, trying not to laugh. 

"You don't consider it could have been thanks to my powers of persuasion?" 

"Hardly," lied Doyle. 

"I believe the pair of you are foxed," said Theo severely. "Who was this man Turner?" 

"Simon Turner. My former secretary." 

"Simon Turner? Why should that name seem so familiar?" Theo sat muttering to himself before exclaiming, "I have it! Never say he's that shady cousin Max was always complaining of? Up to his ears in debt and with an unsavoury choice in drinking companions?" 

"Very probably. Your memory for trivia never ceases to amaze me. You knew Turner?" asked Bodie. 

"Met him. Didn't care to pursue the acquaintance. You remember him, of course," Theo added, poking his brother. 

"Should I?" said Doyle with a frown. 

"He spent nigh on two months at Crenley six or seven years back. I cannot be certain. He was with a party come down from London. You must remember him, Ray. Ah, no, I forgot. You were never present," Theo added with a trace of awkwardness. 

"Why not?" asked Bodie. 

With a rare tact, Theo left it to his sibling to explain. 

"I was not on cordial terms with my sire and spent my time in the stables," said Doyle. 

Reading between the lines of that bald statement without difficulty, Bodie allowed the subject to drop but he shifted along the seat so that his shoulder brushed Doyle's, that the only small gesture of solidarity permissible while Theo was present. 

"What relevance is there in Turner's stay at Crenley? We never met. Indeed, apart from a brief exchange at the Hall we are strangers," said Doyle. 

"He and Consuela were not. They were thick as thieves - until she found herself a more distinguished flirt," Theo informed them. 

"There's the connection," said Bodie. 

"Of course! Hence the bogus physician with his deadly poultice. Our stepmother is a dab hand with herbs," Doyle explained to his mystified lover. 

"You both seem to be missing the point," said Theo. "How is it that Turner and Consuela were able to hatch plots? To do so they must have been in communication recently, something which should not have been possible." 

Doyle shrugged. "It's easy enough to bribe a servant." 

"Exactly. What's to stop her from hiring another accomplice? Though why she should hold you in such hatred is beyond me," said Theo with a frown.

Doyle spared his brother an affectionate glance. "Not everyone possesses your equable temperament. I doubt if she possesses what we would consider a motive. She may blame me for the collapse of her plans, which resulted in her imprisonment." 

"The woman's deranged," said Theo with conviction. 

"I believe I had worked that much out." Doyle's smile faded. "I shall have to go to Crenley," he added with a resigned sigh. "Papa must be told of events here and the probity of Consuela's guards ascertained. I may not be her only target next time." 

"He will not thank you for the news," Theo warned. 

"No," agreed Doyle pensively, in no doubt who would bear the brunt of Peter Doyle's displeasure for disrupting the even tenor of his life. 

"He has always found it easier to blame others for his own shortcomings. Leave it to me to tell him," said Theo. "It is imperative that steps are taken to stop her." 

Tempted, Doyle shook his head. "I do not wish to impose on your good nature. It will not be a pleasant task." 

His expression unusually thoughtful, Theo studied what he could see of his brother's profile. "You've had your share of unpleasantness over the years. It is time I took a little. Leave this for me to handle. I will take all necessary steps to ensure the safety of my family if Papa will not." 

"Including going to the authorities?" said Doyle. 

"If need be." 

"But the scandal?" 

"Is preferable to learning my brother has been murdered. Given the dust Prinny's doings have created, it would be no more than a seven-day wonder." 

"I trust our sire will see it in the same light," said Doyle. 

"He will by the time I've explained matters to him," promised Theo grimly. "Will you leave it with me, young 'un?" 

"Gladly," said Doyle in a heartfelt tone. 

"Then we'll take our leave of you tomorrow. I'll write you on what course of action has been decided upon." 

"And, I trust, visit us again in the near future," said Bodie. 

On this occasion Doyle only smiled upon hearing that offer of hospitality, content that he and his lover should be on such amicable terms with at least part of his family, something which had seemed no more than a pipe-dream in the past.


	14. Chapter 14

FOURTEEN 

_Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten._

 

Having waved their visitors farewell, Bodie and Doyle settled down to make a life together. They were prepared to deal with difficulties which might arise, not least those stemming from the fact they were both men accustomed to going their own way. 

"Although where there is goodwill I do not foresee any insurmountable problems," remarked Doyle as they sat beside the fire, pleasantly tired after a day riding round the estate while Bodie introduced his agent to tenant farmers and labourers alike. 

"I have a surfeit of goodwill for the world in general and you in particular, especially since I thrashed you at chess," grinned Bodie, gesturing to the board which sat between them. 

"I shall have my revenge another night. If this rain continues I'd best send a man to check the bridge at Harley Ford. Winter flooding looked to have weakened the supports." 

"I did not notice," Bodie confessed. 

"It is my task to look out for such things. But I cannot say I am surprised to hear you admit as much. I swear your gaze was burning a hole in my backside for a goodly part of the day." 

"You noticed?" There was a hint of wariness in Bodie's tone, aware that Doyle had yet to come to terms with the appreciation with which his physical attractions were met. Unaccustomed to compliments in his formative years, he was inclined to turn them away or greet them with suspicion. 

"Wasn't I supposed to?" Doyle's grin made it plain he enjoyed the attentions he received from his lover. 

"Perhaps," admitted Bodie lazily. "I cannot help myself." 

"I am delighted to hear it. I seem to be experiencing the same difficulty at present," Doyle offered. 

"No?" marvelled Bodie. "Now that you have seen something of the estate, do you approve of my stewardship in your absence?" he added, not without trepidation, knowing he would receive an honest not to say a forthright reply. 

"Given the way the estate had been run down - and I am talking about a period of years rather than months, so there is no need for that hangdog look - I am impressed. You have worked hard and to some purpose with regard to the buildings. I scarce recognised the village it is so improved." 

"It is a beginning. But given the sharp drop in the price of wheat, I have had no choice but to reduce rents or risk seeing good men go under. That loss of revenue, combined with my capital expenditure, has meant I could not do all I should like. You needn't fear," Bodie added, making light of it, "we shall not find ourselves in the Poor House, but I am not so plump in the pocket." 

"Then it's fortunate I was not expecting to sponge off you. I am delighted the matter has been settled so easily." 

Bodie gave him a dark look but was disarmed when Doyle cocked his head and smiled at him. "I understand your feelings on the topic. I can only trust you will consider mine." 

"We'll see," Bodie growled. 

"Should I quake?" Doyle wondered aloud. "No. Given my humble situation subservience is best." 

"Enough," groaned Bodie. "I surrender. And do not gloat, it isn't becoming." 

"I shouldn't dream of it," Doyle assured him, perjuring himself without hesitation. "Besides, I believe I can see a way to utilise the land more profitably. Diversification," he explained when Bodie gave him a mystified look. "And modern methods of farming. I have kept up my reading to a certain degree." He gave an urchin grin. "While rumour often had me dallying with my latest bit of muslin, the odds are that I was in correspondence with Mister Coke or reading catalogues from the manufactories which are developing modern farming implements." 

"Machines." Bodie wrinkled his nose. 

"Progress," Doyle corrected. "You will need to display more enthusiasm later. I shall need your assistance to win over our labour force. Country folk are notoriously reluctant to accept change. But they will come round. Lord, how I have missed country life." 

"Does that include the mud, the stink and the poverty?" enquired Bodie dryly. 

"They may be found anywhere. After close on two years sampling the delights offered by town life I am satisfied I am missing nothing a short visit won't make up for." 

"I shall arrange for you to be made conversant with my finances," announced Bodie abruptly. "I intend ours to be a partnership in more than name. What I have is yours." 

"Just remember the reverse is true. I will write my bankers. Though if memory serves, when I include the revenues from my grandmother's estate I believe my income will approach seven thousand a year." 

Bodie's jaw sagged. "I knew Langley was a rich property, but so much?" he said incredulously. 

"About five thousand. I took some pains to invest wisely what I won at the tables." 

Aware that he was about to broach a difficult topic, Bodie chose his words with care. "How can that be? Forgive me, but I saw only the losses you sustained at the tables. Five thousand pounds in one night." 

"You were obviously absent when I had my successes. Despite the appearance I took such pains to foster I am no gamester. For the first month or so I plunged deep - I defy any man to resist the lure of Paris. Then I realised how many tried to make the tables their source of livelihood. While the drunks and fools were doomed to failure, it is not impossible. To play Hazard one needs only the ability to calculate the odds and wager accordingly - and a strong head, of course. I possess both, although I confess that after your arrival what little of my attention which was not given to you, I devoted to the bottle. With predictable results. But by the time I reached England I had made enough at the tables of Europe to secure a comfortable future. In London I played only to pass the time. I cannot conceive how so many men are content to frivol their lives away," Doyle confided. 

"I feared you were beggaring yourself at the tables but dared not intervene," Bodie admitted sheepishly. 

"Rather than fleecing those too desperate to know what they were about? You must have heard of Fordingham's death." 

"But not that you were responsible for it. He was nine and thirty. At that age a man makes his own choice." 

The frozen look left Doyle's face. "Despite all that happened between us you did not doubt me. That means more than you can know." 

"I am aware how little foundation may lie at the root of the rumours which spread. Those who chose to salvage their consciences by blaming you did not have the advantage of knowing you as I do. And unless I miss the mark, you took no steps to alter their opinion. Stiff-rumped gudgeon," Bodie mocked gently, pouring his companion a glass of Madeira. 

"Perhaps," Doyle conceded. 

Because his companion had raised the topic, Bodie felt free to pursue it. "Who was responsible for the rumours that linked you with Fordingham's death, do you know?" 

"Not for certain. Saltash is the obvious choice. It was in his interest to divert attention from himself. He and I were with Fordingham that last night. I was so crapulous that I accompanied them to some new hell Saltash recommended. It was the usual sort of place, although if I had been more familiar with London Society the identity of some of the players would have put me on guard." 

"Saltash probably took you for a Johnny Raw fresh from the country. What happened?" 

"Not much. I won about a thousand. I left Fordingham and Saltash at play. Fordingham was like a man possessed, but I did not dream... The following day I heard that, having beggared his family, he had shot himself." 

"If you recognised the nature of the club, Fordingham certainly should have done after twenty years on the Town." 

"When have desperate men ever reasoned thus? He was so foxed I doubt he could see his hand in front of his face. If I had stayed on matters would have ended differently." 

"You delude yourself," said Bodie briskly. "And do not glare at me so, for you know I am right." 

"Perhaps," conceded Doyle grudgingly. 

"There is no _perhaps_ about it. A true gamester is always convinced his luck must change. But that, I take it, is why you permitted Saltash to goad you into a duel. I wondered why you suffered his company." 

"Suffer is the appropriate word. He is a remarkably difficult man to insult. And even then he avoided his just deserts." 

"Better Saltash forced to flee in disgrace than you for killing your man. Why did you take such a task upon yourself?" 

Doyle's distant gaze remained on the fire, his face looking suddenly older than his years. "Because I felt myself to blame for the part I had played in Fordingham's death."

"And?" pressed Bodie. 

"Harry Fordingham is but fifteen years old. Mrs. Fordingham was afraid that the rashness of youth would lead him to some intemperate action." 

"So you decided to take a hand," nodded Bodie. 

"Someone had to. Besides, I liked the man." 

"As did most of society. Only they tut-tutted under their breath and chose to forget the matter. I suppose you met Mrs. Fordingham when you waived her husband's debt." 

"How did - ? Nonsense," blustered Doyle. 

"I'll not embarrass you by saying more on the topic. Come to bed and allow me to express my admiration in a more tangible fashion," coaxed Bodie. 

Irritated by how easily he had been gulled into telling the truth, Doyle gave him a narrow-eyed glare. "If you want to fuck, say so," he said crudely. 

"I want to fuck," said Bodie obediently. 

Minutes later they were disrobing in Bodie's bedchamber. Open and free in their lovemaking, there was little they had not tried as they experimented in the ways of pleasure; how to prolong or to quicken the act, the touches and positions which delighted the most. 

Realising it was mastery his lover sought tonight, Bodie made him work for it. By the time he succeeded in pinning the slighter man he was as aroused as his panting companion. It was then that the mood between them became blacker, Doyle seemingly chased by devils. Tonight there was no languid love-play or tantalising of aching flesh; even simple safeguards were omitted in favour of blunt commands which were blindly obeyed. Their joining was brutal in its intensity, Doyle a mindless force bent beneath the heavier man. 

Close to the edge, buried deep in Doyle's body, Bodie abruptly stilled, leaning forward to kiss the snarling face upon which endurance was the only discernible emotion. 

Startled, Doyle opened eyes bright with pain, his expression slowly clearing. 

"That's better," Bodie murmured. The hands bruising him eased their grip. 

"Run out of steam?" enquired Doyle in more of his usual tone, rubbing the taut forearm brushing his side. 

"Not yet," confirmed Bodie tersely. While aching for completion he was afraid of what would become of them if they continued in such a fashion. 

"I'm delighted to hear it. All is well. I'm back with you now," Doyle added gently, his black mood lightening as he understood what troubled his companion. 

"Yes." Unconvinced, Bodie made no effort to move. 

"Then shall we?" Doyle invited, rubbing Bodie's taut buttocks with his toes and gasping as the movement caused sensation to ripple through him. 

Completion when it was achieved came no less urgently, this no tranquil ride, but there was a difference and both men were thankful for it. 

"I drove us to the brink of disaster. Thank God you had more control than I," murmured Doyle, too exhausted to help as his cramped limbs were straightened and Bodie eased him onto his stomach. 

"Your face was my guide," said Bodie as he tended to his sore mate. "I love to watch your expression when you come." 

"To ensure I have not fallen asleep?" teased Doyle, chuckling into the pillow. It changed to a yelp as Bodie nipped the buttock he had been caressing, the stubble of his chin rasping skin that was more sensitive than usual. "You need a shave," he said, grimacing as he rolled onto his aching back. 

Sliding in next to him and settling the covers, there was a bruised look to Bodie's eyes. "And sleep." 

Doyle rubbed soothingly down his flank. "I did not intend to turn our bed into a battlefield." 

"It's far from the first time we've allowed our strength full rein, and I doubt if it will be the last. But never again in anger," said Bodie, in the manner of one making a vow. 

"Never," agreed Doyle, equally serious, before he grinned and kissed the corner of Bodie's mouth. "But it is as well to know you're capable of handling me," he added irrepressibly. 

Groaning, Bodie held a pillow over his own face, throwing it at Doyle when his companion peered under it. 

*** 

As riding the following morning would have been a decided penance for Doyle, who was moving with all the grace of a man of eighty, Bodie remained in the estate office, taking him through the books and ledgers. The speed with which Doyle familiarised himself with every aspect of the estate made Bodie appreciate not only how keen Doyle's interest in his post was, but how ably he suited the position. 

"You leave me wondering if I am necessary," Bodie remarked as they returned to the office after luncheon. 

"Have no doubts on that score. For one thing, you would win my everlasting gratitude if you would continue to keep up the ledgers. I have no love for written figure work." 

"Nor I," said Bodie unhelpfully. 

"Oh." Downcast, Doyle considered again. "Could we share the task between us?" 

A devious smile crossed Bodie's face. "Make it worth my while and I might consider it." 

"What can I offer you that you do not already have?" muttered Doyle, a woebegone look on his face. 

"Very well," Bodie sighed, "we'll do the books turn and turn about. You take unfair advantage, playing on my better nature." 

Sobering, Doyle leant across the desk to take his hand. "I was but jesting. Though I'll not deny I enjoy discovering what I can get away with." 

Bodie cocked his head. "Only what I permit. Make no mistake on that score. What makes you assume you are alone in testing your powers of persuasion? I am just more subtle in my methods." 

"Well, of all the underhand, unscrupulous - " 

"Then we're well-matched. What's this?" Bodie added, tweaking a pamphlet from under Doyle's arm. His ploy to divert his companion's thoughts was successful. 

"Details of the latest seed drill and a threshing machine I propose we order. Although when they arrive, I've a notion we should familiarise ourselves with them before setting out to convince your workforce of their merits." 

"I am not the mechanically-minded member of this team. I'll concentrate on the horseflesh. But won't machines reduce the amount of labour we use?" asked Bodie with a frown. 

"Of course. But other changes I have in mind will ensure that no one is laid off. If you approve." 

"Wholeheartedly. The sight of men reduced to begging on the streets is shameful. Do what you can for them. I have come to know and respect them and should be sorry to lose any of them. Excepting Foxton," Bodie added with a wry grin. 

"Your resident poacher?" 

"You learn quickly. I have any number of them. But he is an out an out rogue. Every estate needs one character, I suppose and there is no real vice in the man," Bodie shrugged with a mixture of amusement and acceptance. 

"I notice you have no gamekeeper." 

"The omission is deliberate. I'd lief as not see a villager transported for a brace of partridge or a rabbit taken to put meat in his children's bellies." 

"That is another problem which I have been considering. The iniquitous enclosure laws have caused much hardship. I thought to make over a small portion of Langley for the villagers to grow crops and vegetables or graze livestock. If you have no objection?" 

"I knew you were a Radical! Just so long as it's you the Squire lectures when he learns of it. But why not take the acreage closest to the village?" Bodie asked. 

"Because it is yours." 

"Ours. I meant what I said the other night. This is a partnership in more than name only. You have the same authority to act as I. The household knows to obey you as they would me." 

Relaxing back in his chair, Doyle grinned. "Oh? I must mention that to Archie," he said, knowing full well that the Scot only tolerated him for his master's sake. 

"Not while I'm within earshot. Are you in much discomfort?" Bodie added as Doyle fidgeted on his seat and gave a small grimace. 

"None," Doyle lied cheerfully. 

"Excellent. Then shall we ride over to see the Squire?" 

"Bastard," retorted Doyle, undeceived by his companion's innocent expression. "I am well enough. I have plenty to busy myself with here if you wish to go." 

"Given a choice, I believe I would rather watch you bespatter my desk with ink than listen to the Squire's reminiscences. Here, let me trim that nib for you." 

*** 

"We should give some thought to how we shall contrive when you come into your inheritance," remarked Bodie one evening, causing Doyle, who had been frankly dozing in front of the fire, to blink at him with spurious attention. 

"Why?" he asked sleepily. 

"When it becomes public knowledge, I do not see how we can continue living thus." 

Doyle gave a lazy stretch. "I've taken care of that. Why are you looking at me so?"

"I trust you in all things, save when you adopt that particular look of innocence. What have you done?" 

"Nothing very terrible. I merely took the trouble after our reconciliation to intimate to several notorious rattles of my acquaintance that I am unlikely to wed as I lost my heart whilst touring Europe." 

"And they swallowed it?" 

"I was most convincing," said Doyle, dignified in the face of his lover's derision. "It is a most affecting tale. I shall spare you a description of the lady, save that she is young and very beautiful." 

"Of course," said Bodie dryly. 

"Hush. She is married to a man of wealth, high position and honour whom it is impossible to contemplate betraying. Thus, whilst our feelings were deeply engaged, we parted." 

"If this is what reading novels does to you I am glad I don't make a habit of it," said Bodie forthrightly, his queasy expression making his feelings apparent. 

"It was hearing you spoken of which gave me the idea." 

Bodie gave him a wary look. "What did you hear?" 

"Surprisingly, nothing to put you to the blush. You have established yourself as a confirmed bachelor." 

"I know my duty," said Bodie, with an appallingly smug air. 

Doyle eyed him broodingly. "I sometimes wonder how I could love anyone so puffed up with self-esteem." 

"Instinctive good taste? No, that cannot be right, this is you we are talking of," Bodie mused, knowing he was safe from retribution while they remained in the library. 

All sleepy sensuality, Doyle studied him in lingering detail. "You will pay for that remark in due course," he warned. "Conserve your energy until we can retire for the night. You'll need it." 

"But what of your inheritance?" asked Bodie, returning to the topic which had become a major preoccupation of his. 

"I have a plan." 

"Oh God," groaned Bodie. 

"One day you will regret provoking me. Are you listening?" 

"Do I have any option?" 

"None." 

"Then I am listening. What have you done?" 

"Nothing," said Doyle with a trace of indignation. "How could I? Quite apart from the fact I do not come into my inheritance until October, my plan requires your approval." 

"No doubt I shall be weak-willed enough to bestow it. Tell me the worst." 

"The current steward of Langley is venial and incompetent. Property has not been maintained, nor the land put to good use. I intend to dismiss him. My lawyers will write Parsons. He may take a new lease of the Manor, but the lands will be run with yours, save for thirty or so acres around the house and Home Farm." 

"And if Parsons declines?" 

"After living there for so long? He has no sons, or interest in running the estate. If he wishes to give the impression he has sold the land to you I shall not object." 

"But you own the Manor, not him," protested Bodie. 

Doyle gave him a patient look. "That fact is known only to my lawyers, my family and you. It concerns no one else. We will run the enlarged estate as one." 

"The benefits are obvious, quite apart from the pleasure it will bring us. Presuming Parson accepts, and like you, I believe he will, I see only one problem. You are giving up a great deal. Your position in the world," Bodie explained when Doyle gave him a puzzled look. 

"I shall be living with the man I love, occupied by work I enjoy and with a more than adequate income. What more could I want?" 

Silenced, Bodie could only stare at him. "And I," he muttered. "You have given me more than I dared hope for." 

Doyle shook his head. "If you are going to become maudlin we'd best retire early." 

"So you can fall asleep?" 

"No, so you can make your gratitude known to me in comfort and privacy and at great length. Always supposing you have the stamina. Old bones, you know," Doyle added, nimbly evading the swat aimed in his direction. 

Pausing in his loving ministrations, Bodie's shoulders began to shake before he sat back on his heels, laughing in earnest. 

"Why did you stop?" asked Doyle, aggrieved. "And what is so damn funny?" 

"You cannot imagine?" gasped Bodie. "I suppose I should feel complimented that you are taking your job so seriously. Oh, Lord, my ribs ache! But consider the blow to my tender sensibilities." 

Muttering under his breath, Doyle lit the branch of candles nearest to the bed. "What did I do - or not do?" he asked, a little anxious now. There were times when the immediacy of his response to his lover's touch worried him lest he give Bodie a disgust of his sensuality. 

"Nothing so very terrible, I suppose," Bodie admitted. "But there we were, in what I took to be the throes of passion, when I heard you mumbling. Naturally, I took it to be encouragement, or at least endearments..." 

"Don't start laughing again. What was I saying?" 

"Clover, sainfoin and turnips," recited Bodie. 

"Oh." At a complete loss, Doyle's expression was apologetic. "I was considering crop rotation," he admitted sheepishly. "We must come to a decision soon." 

"Immediately, if I am not to be unmanned." Bodie eyed him in a considering fashion. "Is there any possibility of your keeping your attention on me for a few minutes?" he added huskily. 

"Every chance, if you continue to eat me with your eyes." 

"And if I do more?" 

Doyle made no effort to defend himself as he was toppled back onto the pillows, Bodie filling his universe. 

"Given a choice between you and turnips, I do not believe my task will be difficult," he conceded, watching with bright-eyed anticipation as Bodie snuffed out the candles. 

*** 

"Your post," said Bodie, tossing it at Doyle, who was busy sucking ink from the palm of his hand. "I trust it will be an improvement on mine. Fanny complained to her sisters, two of whom took it upon themselves to write me." 

"Never say they intend to visit?" said Doyle with horror. 

"No, we are spared that much." 

Examining the two missives awaiting him, Doyle's expression changed from one of contentment to ludicrous dismay. "I fear mine may be worse. My father. And Theo." Holding a letter in each hand, he weighed them, obviously wondering which to open first. "May as well get it over with," he muttered cryptically, opening the letter from his father. 

"He must be in his dotage," he said blankly, thrusting the sheet at Bodie. 

"You wish me to read it?" 

"You may be able to make more sense of it than I." 

Perusing it quickly, Bodie glanced up. "Beyond stating what everyone else has known for years, namely that in you he has a son he may be proud of, I see nothing strange in this. You should have washed your hands," he added dispassionately. "There is ink on your shirt. Indeed, one would imagine you had been dipping your cuff in the ink well." 

Muttering, Doyle folded back the offending portion of linen, inadvertently redistributing the stains about his person. "It's my belief senility's set in. Reading this, one might assume it comes from a doting parent." 

"Or merely one come to his senses," pointed out Bodie, hoping that was true with all his heart. While Doyle rarely spoke of his early life, it was impossible to be ignorant of the deep wounds Peter Doyle had inflicted on his son over the years. "What does Theo have to say?" 

"I might be able to tell you if he adopted a less crabbed hand and refrained from using violet ink. Consuela is dead," Doyle added in a different tone. "Digitalis. They thought by her own hand at first. But it appears she was murdered. Wait on. Theo's writing is impossible!" 

Seating himself, his expression grave, Bodie waited in silence. 

"Well, I suppose it could be worse," sighed Doyle, emerging from the final sheet with relief. "My stepmother was murdered by her companion Howser. It appears Howser and Turner were lovers. Blaming Consuela for involving Turner in her stratagems Howser poisoned her then did away with herself. Theo did not write before because it has taken all this time to ensure the matter was hushed up. 'Tis fortunate my father is on good terms with the Lord Lieutenant," he added cynically. 

"Then it is finally over," said Bodie quietly, trying to gauge his companion's mood. 

"It is difficult to believe. I do not doubt Theo's word, but I have lived in Consuela's shadow for so long. It is strange Papa made no mention of it," Doyle added with a worried frown. 

"Very. Wait, there is another sheet on the floor." 

Scooping it up, Doyle scanned it before he relaxed. "It is over," he confirmed. "I have never heard him sound so... human." 

"Shall you go to Crenley?" 

Doyle shook his head. "My presence will not be required. A private funeral took place a week ago. Perhaps we could visit at the end of the summer. By then Papa will have recovered to the degree where he will welcome someone to vent his spleen on and my new-found halo will have slipped. Although he approves of you." 

"How can you be so sure?" 

"He wrote to tell me so after I informed him I was removing to the Hall." 

Disconcerted, Bodie propped his forearms on the edge of the cluttered desk. "Do you suppose he suspects? About us, I mean." 

"Oh, yes," said Doyle. 

"You take the possibility calmly," exploded Bodie, uneasy that his happiness should rest in such powerful and unpredictable hands. 

"What other choice is there?" replied Doyle reasonably. 

"He could ruin us both." 

"Not if he wishes to avoid a scandal. Besides, I do not believe he would be horrified, whatever he might choose to say. Not that I propose to put it to the test," Doyle added hastily. 

"I should hope not. On what do you base that touching assumption?" 

"He once told me that he had never intended to marry, until he found himself head of the family." 

"So?" 

"While I know he held my mother in great affection, he makes no secret of the fact. Indeed, one might say he labours the point that she was the love of his life. Given the failure of his second marriage, doesn't it strike you as odd that rumour never found him a mistress? He is only four and fifty." 

"Some men have a cooler disposition than others." 

"Yes? Kincaid, my father's secretary, has held the post for over twenty years. Their bedrooms occupy the same wing." 

"Given the size of Crenley, you might as well say they live in the same village. If there was anything untoward in that, all the gentry would be under suspicion of harbouring unnatural affections for their employees." The relish with which Bodie wrapped his tongue around the word _unnatural_ was its own reassurance. 

"You think not?" said Doyle, his expression that of a man who was enjoying himself. "Then let me try and convince you. Crenley is an old house. It has three secret passages. One runs from the master bedroom to the chamber Kincaid occupies. Moreover, like you, my father insists that his servants knock to announce their presence before entering a room. I wonder if the habit arose from the same reason," he added, sitting back to enjoy the effect of his revelations on his companion. 

"The cunning old bastard," breathed Bodie. "You mean your father and this, whatever his name is, are lovers?" 

"I believe it to be a strong possibility. I often wondered why Kincaid tolerated Consuela's spite and my father's uncertain temper when his own reputation was such that he could have taken office with any of the great houses. It was only after you and I became lovers that I began to speculate in earnest." 

"You have already proved you have a vivid imagination. You must be touched in your upper works," dismissed Bodie. 

"Must I? I'll lay you a pony that when we visit Crenley I am given the Blue Suite and you the Grey." 

"They adjoin?" 

"Only thanks to another secret passage." 

"Good God," said Bodie blankly. "Well, I hope you are right. I've no mind to traipse the hallways searching for your room at dead of night." 

"You'll see," said Doyle, in a manner calculated to infuriate more placid men than his lover. 

*** 

They had brought in a fine harvest before they got round to visiting Crenley, the golden Summer turning into a ripe Autumn. While Doyle made no mention of his reluctance to return to the estate which held so many unhappy memories for him, Bodie was in little doubt of his true feelings. Seeing Doyle's tension increase as they rode along the splendid drive, the house glimpsed occasionally through the trees, he gave his companion's arm a comforting squeeze. 

"All will be well, you'll see," he said reassuringly. 

Bodie was certain of it when he heard which rooms had been allocated to them. The final proof, had he required more, came when he glimpsed a fleeting look exchanged by an irascible Peter Doyle and his imperturbable secretary when the two men believed themselves to be unobserved. 

Having locked the door to his room their first night, Bodie wasted little time in travelling through the dusty passage, which Doyle had shown him how to find. 

"I thought you might be anxious lest I forget to settle our wager," he explained with spurious sincerity as he stepped into Doyle's room. 

"I prefer payment in kind," said Doyle, licking a smut from his lover's nose. 

"At what rate?" enquired Bodie, shrugging out of his dressing- gown. 

"A shilling a time." 

"Is that all the value you place on my attentions? You'd best come here then, for I can see it will take me some time to pay off my debt." 

"Years," said Doyle happily, handing him a pot of salve as he made himself comfortable on the bed. "For I intend to charge you an inordinate rate of interest. I hope your fingers are clean," he added, his breath catching as the digits in question began to explore some very personal places. 

"Too late to worry about it now," Bodie told him cheerfully, just before Doyle threw a pillow at his head. 

*** 

Wary of his own reception, particularly now that he knew Peter Doyle was more conversant with his affairs than he would have preferred, Bodie found his host all that was civil, the house party which was gathered at Crenley as pleasant a group as one could hope to meet. 

"I am delighted you were able to accompany my son, Mister Bodie," said Peter Doyle, having neatly cut Bodie out of the herd one evening and drawn him to one side. 

"The pleasure is all mine, sir. Crenley's reputation for hospitality is well-known and obviously deserved." 

"Raymond has been telling me something of your plans for your own estate. I have asked him to speak with my own man. I am always prepared to learn. We seem to be entering into an age of advancement."

"So Ray would have me believe. I am less enamoured of gadgets than he, but he is winning me round. Once we had established how the seed drill functioned, it proved itself within a week," Bodie admitted. 

"Then Raymond is giving satisfaction?" 

For the life of him Bodie could not stop his mouth from quivering. His attempt to disguise the choke of laughter which escaped him into a cough was doomed from the first. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said with a vague gesture of his hand, more colour than was usual in his cheeks. 

Peter Doyle continued to study him, rueful amusement apparent in his eyes. "The fault was mine for phrasing my question so clumsily." Seeming to come to some decision, he added abruptly, "May I be frank with you, Mister Bodie?" 

"Do I have a choice in the matter, sir?" His tone cool, Bodie met the older man's direct stare without flinching, Peter Doyle uncomfortably reminiscent at the moment of his youngest son in an autocratic mood. 

"Aye, you'll do. Very well. I would only ask that you be... prudent in your contentment. While I have not always been the best judge of Raymond's character, I believe you would agree that he is inclined towards rash impulsiveness at times." 

"I believe we are both fully cognizant of how a gentleman should conduct himself." 

Veiling his gaze, Peter Doyle nodded. "I am duly snubbed. But, believe it or not, I have his best interest at heart. And yours. If my assistance is required, for whatever reason, do not hesitate to call on me. I am not without influence." 

Realising that a genuine concern had prompted the older man to speak thus, Bodie found the grace to smile. "Ray and I both know how to protect what is ours. Have no fear on that score. Perhaps you would care to visit the Hall at a later date, with your agent - or perhaps Mister Kincaid - so that you may view the ideas we are putting into practice on the estate." 

After another piercing look, Peter Doyle nodded. "Thank you. I should." 

"Ah, there you are, sir. I believe Mister Kincaid is seeking you out, a matter of some letters," said Doyle as he came upon the two men, ready to leap to his lover's rescue should it be necessary. 

Turning, there was a look of wry amusement on Peter Doyle's face. "I never imagined I had spawned a fool for a son, but it is gratifying to discover I was right." 

"What was all that about?" asked Doyle as he and Bodie strolled toward the games room. 

"I believe your father wished to ascertain my intentions. I have no doubt he has already satisfied himself as to my finances," said Bodie, able to see the comical aspects of the conversation now. 

"Did he, by God! Well, I shall have something to say about that! How dared - " 

"Gently, Ray. Naturally he is anxious." 

Pausing in the hallway, Doyle stared at him. "You mean he spoke openly of - " 

"Not openly. But I believe we have come to an understanding. I invited him to the Hall."

"Oh Lord. What did you do that for?" 

"Worse, he took me up on my invitation," said Bodie with gloom. 

"Then you may have the task of entertaining him," Doyle told him roundly. "Unless he has changed, his idea of travelling light would put a circus to shame. But it was well thought of," he conceded fairly. "Thank you." 

"Don't thank me till the visit's over," said Bodie with a grin. "But it may not be so bad. You and he have much in common." 

"That's no compliment," said Doyle with certainty. 

Bodie shook his head. "You could do worse. Come, it's your turn to thrash me at billiards tonight, if you can." 

*** 

They returned to the Hall after a pleasant stay at Crenley, during which Doyle's childhood memories had been eased by the undemonstrative warmth with which his sire now treated him, Peter Doyle having made a real effort to become acquainted with his son. He seemed to approve of what he discovered. 

The weather unseasonably warm for October, Bodie and Doyle decided to celebrate their return home by ignoring the matters awaiting their attention and taking a day off to enjoy some time together on the land they both loved. 

Taking an al fresco meal with them, they stopped to eat by the clear, fast-flowing river which crossed the estate's southern quarter. 

"One might think us the only souls around for miles," mused Doyle as he unsaddled his horse prior to allowing him to crop the grass under the shade of a spreading chestnut tree. 

"It is a pleasant spot," Bodie allowed, watching with astonishment as Doyle began to undress. "Ray? Ray, we cannot. Not in the open!" he exclaimed, flustered. 

Hauling off his second boot, Doyle drew away his remaining clothing and gloriously naked, padded toward him, a pagan figure in the sunshine. 

Mistrusting his smile, Bodie backed away. 

"Protecting your virtue?" asked Doyle with interest. 

Bodie nodded and continued to retreat. 

"You'll be sorry if you don't stop," Doyle warned him, his gaze sliding beyond his retreating lover. 

"Not as sorry as if I stayed still," said Bodie a split second before he backed himself over the edge of the river bank. 

He made a satisfying splash, Doyle having ascertained that the water was deep enough to keep Bodie from harm. 

"You can swim, I suppose?" enquired Doyle from the bank. 

"I'll kill you," Bodie promised him, after spitting out a mouthful of water, pond weed adorning his left ear. "I only got this jacket a month ago. Damn it, stop laughing and give me a hand up," he commanded as he swam over to the bank. 

"You'll pull me in." 

"You're dressed for a swim," Bodie pointed out grimly, before he gave a reluctant grin. "Pull me out? These boots are getting heavy and if I have to take a swim I'd as soon be naked." 

His bare feet braced, Doyle extended his hand.

Having helped Bodie unpeel himself from his clothes and wrung them out in a manner which made Bodie groan, Doyle carefully spread them out in the sun to dry. 

"It is fortunate we're only a mile or so from home. You'll have a deuced uncomfortable ride," Doyle realised. "But you were so - I could not resist it." 

"And you'll pay," Bodie promised him. "When we're more private. Lord, I haven't swum since I was a boy. Come on, then. I owe you a ducking or two." 

"First you must catch me," said Doyle, running for the bank. 

They swam and laughed and played for over an hour before hunger called them from the water. Lying in the sunshine to dry themselves, the dry grass prickled their naked bodies. 

"It's fortunate we brought plenty of food, I'm starved," said Bodie, just beating Doyle to the last of the small succulent fruit pies. Relenting, he broke it in half. 

"Yours is bigger than mine," Doyle accused, licking apricot juice from his wrist. 

Bodie glanced downwards. "True," he said modestly, before he fielded the apple hurled at him. 

Warm, relaxed and pleasantly tired from his exertions, Doyle fell asleep in the sun, face pillowed on his forearm, his damp hair brushing his lover's thigh. He woke to feel Bodie's hands on his back. 

"Mmm?" he mumbled, hoping the touch would lead to better things. 

"Tonight, when we are private," Bodie promised, briefly palming the small buttocks. "I'm dressed and it's time you were. The sun is going down and the air cooling. You are beautiful," he added inconsequentially, a finger tracing one of the silvery scars which crossed and re-crossed his lover's spine. He knew every mark Doyle bore, still blaming himself for the severity of a couple of them. 

"Does this ever trouble you?" he added, his fingers gentle over the old knife wound at Doyle's side. 

"Never," said Doyle lazily, rolling onto his back. "Ah, love. Do not look at me so unless you wish me to embarrass us both. I'd best dress immediately. I see I owe you a new jacket," he added wryly, eyeing the crumpled ruin which Bodie had wisely chosen not to struggle back into. 

"It was worth it," said Bodie, sitting back on his heels to enjoy the sight of Doyle dressing. 

"Who would believe it was warm enough to bathe in October. I have been thinking that we should purchase some pigs," added Doyle, happily oblivious that he had lost his companion's attention. Becoming aware of it only five minutes later, he crouched in front of Bodie. 

"Here, a last apple each. You haven't heard a word I've said, have you." 

"Er, no," Bodie admitted, biting into the apple with relish. 

"What were you looking at?" asked Doyle. He tossed a piece of apple into the water, watching a small trout dart out from the shadows of the reeds to investigate. 

"I was merely contemplating the pleasure to be derived from viewing a pair of fine eyes," said Bodie blandly. 

Glancing over his shoulder and finding no one there, Doyle turned back to his lover. "Whose?" he asked, licking his apple-sticky fingers with gusto. 

Bodie gave a patient sigh. "Given that there are only two of us present and that I am not staring into a mirror, my choice is somewhat limited. Yours, of course." 

"Are you trying to put me to the blush?" enquired Doyle with suspicion. 

Bodie snorted. 

"Or to turn me up sweet?" 

"I gave up on lost causes months ago." 

"Then what?" 

"I had merely fallen into the grave error of attempting to pay you a compliment. Though I cannot imagine why." 

"Oh." Doyle gave a pleased grin. "Well, there is no need to be so irritable about it. I'm more accustomed to receiving eulogies about my arse from you than my fine eyes?" He frowned. "Where have I heard that phrase before? You've finally read _Pride and Prejudice_!" he accused, having identified the source of the quotation. 

"Guilty as charged." 

"Did you enjoy it?" 

"To a degree, although I gained more pleasure when you read from it. But the sentiment I expressed was sincere," Bodie added meekly. "Had the author thought to insert a eulogy about other portions of the anatomy, I should have been delighted to use that." 

"Ah, then you should read - No, I forgot. You do not care for novels." 

"You're roasting me. Aren't you?" Bodie added with a doubt that was Doyle's undoing. 

Bodie swooped on his companion when Doyle's chuckles betrayed him, kissing him soundly. 

"I never thought the day would come when I would find you reading," Doyle mused, nibbling delicately at his lover's lower lip, knowing they could not be overlooked. 

"I have been known to indulge. Although I must confess to preferring _Tom Jones_." 

"You would. The library is a source of constant pleasure to me, particularly as you seem to acquire new volumes so quickly." 

"I placed a standing order with Hatchards a couple of years ago." 

"And did not cancel it when I left the Hall?" 

Bodie's gaze fixed itself on his unpleasantly soggy boots. "No. That would have entailed accepting that you would never return." 

Doyle closed his much admired eyes for a moment, overtaken by a rush of tenderness. "What am I to do with you," he sighed lovingly, his arms encircling a broad chest as he knelt behind Bodie, hugging him. 

Leaning back against the support Doyle offered, Bodie gave a lazy smile. "Just continue as you have been doing," he said comfortably. 

"There, I knew I was perfect," said Doyle in triumph. 

He lost all pretension to decorum when Bodie began to tickle him. 

THE END


End file.
